


Meet Me On The Battlefield

by Marcellebelle



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU because magic exists alongside alchemy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, Family, Gen, Genocide, Harry is Confused, Ishvalans - Freeform, Kimblee - Freeform, Master of Death (Harry Potter), Nightmares, Parent-Child Relationship, Parental Roy Mustang, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Siblings, Slow Burn, Team as Family, War, because y'know, eventually, plus Harry, poor kid, will appear in this story, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-19 21:47:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20216779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcellebelle/pseuds/Marcellebelle
Summary: Excerpt, Arc 1:9“I’ll keep them safe,” the fraught words fell from his lips, even as his heart trembled, shivering in the magnitude of an oath seemingly insurmountable. “I swear it.”One impossible promise for another.------------------Harry has just won the war against Voldemort, but it seems as though Death has other plans for him. Alone in a foreign land, he has to build a life for himself, but as external forces threaten his place in this new world, will he be able keep those he cares about alive?





	1. Arc 1~ 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't usually associate my writing with songs- but this is an exception because the idea for this story came to me while listening to the song 'Meet Me On The Battlefield' by SVRCINA, so I thought it best to credit it. It's not at all necessary to listen to the song to read it (obviously) however I absolutely recommend it if only because its very powerful and relevant to a lot of current issues (in my opinion).
> 
> Sorry for my rambling- that's all I have to say, except thanks for giving the story a go :-)
> 
> \- Marcellebelle

The second wizarding war ended on the 2nd of May, 1998.

It was all over for Riddle, of course, and as Harry watched the man he’d been fighting for seven years disintegrate before his eyes, all that he could bring himself to feel was a weary, trembling satisfaction.

The last remnant of his mortal enemy fell into nonexistence and he sagged to the ground, knees bruising from the impact. He shuddered, his stomach twisting beyond anything that could possibly be considered comfort, and he nearly vomited as the twisting became a pull so strong he thought he might bawl from the pain-- had Voldemort's spell hit after all?

He hadn't thought it had, but--

But _something_ was happening to him.

And then he realised, in a split second that seemed to last for an eternity, it was his end too.

It began all at once, and finished within that very moment too. A sharp tugging at his naval, reminiscent of port-key travel, accompanied a white hot fire that had him screaming in agony. The sensation spread as though cold fingers were digging into his flesh and scooping out his insides, pulling and pulling until shards of his body broke away, fraying, like crudely cut edges of fabric. His fingers, arms, legs turned to dust, and it was all he could do to watch the pieces of his body disappear into nothingness. Even his tears seemed to scatter, vanish, as though they were never really there to begin with.

“No!” he choked out, desperately, the plea dissolving into ash as quickly as his tongue had, as he stared at the fragments drifting out of his open mouth. “Stop, please!” he cried again, but the words came out garbled and unintelligible, held together by nothing but empty air.

There was a laugh, or at least he thought he could hear one, amidst the hazy throes of pain. A cold, high, rasping laugh, coming hand in hand with ruby eyes and an empty smile, so similar to the cackle that haunted his nightmares that they might as well be one and the same.

A soft voice-- the owner of that terrible, terrible laugh-- said something, and then had to repeat itself because Harry couldn’t hear it over the sounds of his own screams.

It said: “Don’t look, child. Close your eyes.”

“Why?” he wanted to shout. “Who are you? Why are you hurting me? Why should I trust you?”

But he couldn’t speak. 

“Close your eyes.” the voice was insistent.

He was without choice, in too much pain to bear his own thoughts longer, and he hovered at the edge of consciousness. He let his eyelids flutter-- once, twice, before they shut and the final piece of him dissolved into oblivion.

And then the torture ceased.

From oblivion into the light.

Harry’s eyes remained closed-- his _ eyes, _ as though they were actually _ there. _ He felt solid, more put together. He was trembling, too, his _ body-- _ his actual body-- shaking, his fingers grasping the ground beneath him-- a texture so unlike anything he’d ever felt before but so undoubtedly there _ . _

He opened his eyes, looked down at his body, and sobbed in relief, hands now roving over his torso and limbs. He was whole. He was _ safe, _ it was okay, everything was okay-- except as he stared at his body he realised that was _ all _he could see, and the panic he’d felt began to climb again.

He raised his head, taking in his surroundings-- or perhaps, to phrase it bluntly, _ lack _ of surroundings. Though he felt as though he was on solid ground, the expanse of white nothingness before him suggested he was not. It was a place devoid of any kind of substance, and for a moment Harry wondered if he was dreaming, though he scrapped the idea almost instantly. He’d lived a life full of oddities most people would consider the stuff of legend, and he should have expected something like this, he should have been _ used _ to this level of ridiculous by now. He felt like laughing, but the mirth wasn’t there, and any sound he’d have made would have just been a hollow echo of genuine amusement, and that didn’t suit him well. Trouble seemed to be drawn to him like a moth to a flame, and yet this was unlike anything that had happened to him before. He could feel it-- in his body, in his bones, thrumming through his veins like the sense of unease had its own, beating heart-- and though he didn’t know _ why, _ for it seemed any logical person would come to the opposite conclusion _ \-- _ he had an indubitable certainty that this was most definitely _ not _happening inside his head.

There was a familiar chuckle-- though Harry could not place where he’d heard it before, and he turned around sharply, gripping his wand defensively in front of him.

A place devoid of existence, it seemed, except for the giant stone gate etched with unfamiliar symbols, the humanoid figure that clearly wasn’t actually human seated cross legged on the debatably solid floor, and of course, Harry himself.

“Who are you?” he choked out. He felt a vague sort of surprise to hear the words actually leave his mouth, his curiosity indomitably overshadowed by the sheer power that the being in front of him exuded. It wasn’t a _ frightening _ aura per se-- he wasn’t scared, but silenced in quiet awe, and it was a reticence he hadn’t realised he’d been willing to break.

It wasn’t like the darkness, or the shadows that had overcome any room Tom Riddle stood in-- no, that was limited, terrible as it was. That magic had been human, even wielded by a wizard of Voldemort’s strength, and everything the man had done had been within the confines of humanity, as disgusting, as _ depraved _as those actions had been. Riddle had never ascended to the immortal, God-like status he’d so blatantly craved. He’d been born as a human, and had died as one too, alone and as pitiful as the day he’d been brought into the world.

Fundamentally, Voldemort had been nothing.

The creature before him radiated a force far greater, limitless in comparison (in comparison to what, though, perhaps anything, for nothing could compare,) superior through the blinding lack of shadows, chilling in the absence of light. 

_ ‘There is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it.’ _

_ This is what you wanted, _ Harry thought bitterly. _ Wasn’t it, Riddle? You wanted to _ be _ this _.

He thanked whatever strangeness that sat before him, desperately relieved that his foe had ultimately failed. For a man so accomplished in evil to become as powerful as the being in front of him-- the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

It took him a moment to realise how violently he was trembling, the arm holding his wand shaking, as if he were lifting an immense weight. He shifted on his feet, an odd kind of fear coming over him as he realised he may have asked the wrong question-- the correct words, of course, being: “What are you?”

But then, he wasn’t sure he could handle the answer.

The creature, being, _ whatever it was _ , grinned in delight-- and dear lord, those _ teeth _ , white and sharp, in perfect condition-- and somehow a smile had never been more terrifying _ , _nor so absolute than in the white, vacant void than seemed to span for eternity. It wasn’t a smile-- not really. It was more akin to the grin a shark might appear to wear, ruthlessly vicious under that toothy countenance, and yet despite the psychopathy, more real a smile than any he’d known.

“Hello, Harry,” it spoke as though it had a mouthful of gravel, though every word rang crystal clear. There was no echo in the wide space; the words sounded flat and empty, as though all the emotion had been wrung out of them.

And then, as if his perception had been altered by that empty, empty voice, all he could feel was deep fear, and a sense of utter wrongness.

This _ wasn’t _right. 

“What are you?” he gripped the wand ferociously, his heart beating haphazardly in his chest. “Tell me,” he willed his arm to stop shaking so vehemently as he ordered the terrifying being. “Answer the question!” cold fear trickled into the pit of his stomach as sweat ran in rivulets down his back. He wasn’t sure if the shock had worn off, or if he just hadn’t noticed until now how deathly afraid he really was, but the magnitude of the being before him had struck him hard, and he was frightened. “Answer or I’ll--”

“Are you really going to use my own wand against me?” the thing interrupted, shifting it’s head towards the conduit clutched in his hands. There was suddenly a cruel, greedy look on it’s white, fleshy face, and Harry felt himself recoil in a kind of disbelieving horror, taking a shaky step back, feeling for a strange, absurd moment, as though he’d been deceived. 

“What do you mean?” he whispered, the grip so hard on his wand that his fingers were turning white. “What do you mean it's your_ wand _?”

“Oh come now, child,” the creature’s tone wasn’t quite dismissive, but there was a pervasive disdain that coated every word. “I know you’re not as dense as you pretend to be. The wand you’re holding- surely you’ve noticed it’s not your _ regular _conduit.”

Harry _ had _ noticed, in the back of his mind, but he’d pushed it aside, a little too preoccupied by the events that had just occurred to even think about the fact that he’d technically won the _ elder wand _from Riddle. He’d pulled it out in a panicked haste, leaving his stolen (won, he’d won it and it was rightfully his) hawthorn wand safely stowed in the pocket of his lacerated denims.

The elder wand. The elder wand was-- it was--

A deathly hallow.

_ Are you really going to use my own wand against me? _

His heartbeat stuttered, and all the breath in his body left him so violently that he almost choked as he registered the damning, ruinous words that shattered everything he thought he knew, because that had been a _ story book. _ It wasn’t supposed to be real, wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a cautionary tale, and yet he couldn’t deny the presence of the powerful being before him, nor the magnitude of simple _ existence _ it managed to emanate, and finally, in the face of his unnerving revelation he managed to utter the single truth he’d suspected since the moment he’d found himself in this god-forsaken place--

“You’re Death.”

The being in front of him slowly smiled, exposing it’s white, shark-like teeth and inclined its head. “That is correct, Harry,” it praised him as though he were a small child learning how to walk. Perhaps by it’s standards, that was all he appeared to be-- all that his short life, troubled and full of strife though it had been, amounted to in the face of an eternity.

Anger was seeping through him like a slow acting poison-- except he allowed it, accepted it, as it coiled around his mind, corrupting the fear he’d been nurturing and moulding it into its own, because… because _ where was the justice? _ This thing had lifted him from the world, on the cusp of his bloody victory. It had stolen something from him, stolen his life, his love, his _ future _ , as though everything he’d built since his pitiful existence in that lonely cupboard meant nothing-- and he had no assurance of his return. He took a slow breath, trying desperately to keep his expression blank, because despite his rage, despite his wrathful, _ fearful _ fury that had settled deep within his bones, his only defence against this indomitable, incomprehensible being was apathy. “I just can’t believe it,” was all he eventually whispered, except it wasn’t exactly that he couldn’t-- he simply didn’t _ want _ to.

This was impossible, it should be impossible. Death wasn’t really real-- at least, not in the most corporeal sense. By all realms of logic he should not be talking, let alone be having a conversation, with it. 

_ Why not? _ his subconscious whispered, betrayal etched into every innocuous word. _ The presence of souls and spirits is indubitable, you’ve seen it yourself. _

He had-- Riddle’s damaged soul, tattered beyond repair came to mind. The _ ghosts _came to mind.

_ Is the existence of Death really such a chasm to cross? _

It should have been. Had the world been ordinary, it might have been. Ordinary. What a fairytale. 

“If you are uncomfortable with that title, you may call me Truth,” the creature-- thing-- _ whatever _ added, as though it were blissfully unaware of Harry’s internal struggle; something the seventeen year old was positively sure was _ not _ the case. “Do you have any other names you go by, _ Harry James Potter?” _

Then it laughed, hollow and broken, as something that should have been there was just--

Gone.

Harry stiffened, disgust worming its way into his heart and seizing it in a vice-like grip. “Something funny?” he asked sharply, allowing the rush of anger he’d felt earlier to disguise the fear that gripped his heart, cinching the invisible bands that had coiled, tight and unyielding around his rib cage. He wasn’t about to play the game that the being in front of him was offering- wasn’t about to engage in a battle of bloody _ wit, _ when he’d been pulled from a battle of actual blood and sweat, a battle that he’d been forced to _ abandon, _ because some immortal saw fit to bloody interfere. His eyes smarted, and he scrubbed a sleeve over them roughly, self-disgust burning like an unquenchable fire. He would not cry. He wouldn’t.

The creature turned its head, its gaze assessing as it stared at him. “Hilarious,” it answered. “Many who come through these doors believe me to be God.”

“God,” Harry whispered, his voice cracking. “Right.”

“Not you though.” It’s voice was grave, but an undercurrent of mirth still ran thickly through its words. “You never even asked, and-- I wonder, Harry Potter, if the thought even occurred to you.”

It hadn’t. He stayed silent, his throat feeling suddenly and inexplicably tight. He couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted to. 

“Answer my question, Harry,” Death commanded.

There hadn’t been a question, not really, though he understood what the immortal was asking of him. He considered the unfairness of it all, the injustice of how terrifyingly permanent all this felt, and in the end he spoke the damning words. “I don’t believe God would ever be so cruel.”

“You believe a God must love his creation?”

“A God that isn’t loving isn’t a God to me at all!” Harry lashed out, losing the battle he’d been fighting against his fear, rage and exhaustion loosening his tongue. “And you are neither. Voldemort died-- I saw it. I gained his wand, which means I won. I didn’t die, and-- and it fulfilled the prophecy! _ Neither one can live while the other survives. _ I killed him! You’ve no right to take my life too!” He was breathing heavily by then, his brow clammy and chilled, as though he was suffering from sudden fever. “You’ve taken me away from my friends- I don’t even know if they’re still alive.” He was aware how small his voice had become, how childlike- and he hated it. “That _ is _ cruel, and you are _ not _a God.”

The creature smiled softly, and it seemed almost warm. Almost, but not quite. “That’s interesting, child. I suppose, by your standards, I cannot be God. How very unfortunate.” It laughed again, still frighteningly blank, but perhaps a little less hollow, humour replacing it’s previous dull apathy. “Nevertheless, you should know that you are not actually dead, Harry Potter. That part of the prophecy is still very much intact.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me why you brought me here?” The desperation colouring Harry’s voice took him by surprise and he swiped a few errant tears from his cheeks. _ Damn it _ . He _ couldn’t _look weak. He closed his eyes, as more wretched words fell from his lips, “I need to get back, please. I need to get back to my family,” a sob tore from his throat, and he cringed away, the loss of control over his emotions making his stomach clench. He’d fought the darkest wizard of the age, and yet one meeting with the timeless being in front of him had sent him straight back to the cradle.

Though he supposed, compared to an immortal, they were all infantile, gaping at the world through wide, guileless eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” that voice, that vacant, colourless voice, sounded overwhelmingly stricken, as though it had just been made aware of a great loss. “Child, I _ cannot _ send you back. I’m so sorry.”

“Then why am I here?” Harry choked on his tears. He didn’t for a second believe that the callous, unfeeling creature before him was _ sorry _. “Why am I here? Damn it, Death, answer me!”

“I think you already know that,” it smiled encouragingly at him. “You have ownership of all three hallows. Do you remember what happens to those who manage that?”

Harry clenched his fists, unable to speak without feeling like he was going to burst into another round of sobs. “Just say it,” he whispered, throat tightening in fear. “Enough-- enough of your bloody words, just say it!” he sucked in quick, sharp breaths that left him more than a little lightheaded as panic seized his muscles. His heart hammering in his chest, he all but glared at the immortal being. “Tell me the truth! That’s what you claim you are, isn’t it?”

An icy calm seemed to settle over its disposition, and it shifted as though it was about to clamber to its feet. “Very well,” the words were cool and dispassionate, detached from any warmth they might have previously possessed. “Though you would do well to know your place,” the creature did stand then, showing Harry the full extent of its body. It was sickening-- humanoid in appearance, and yet so unlike anything remotely resembling a _ person. _ He couldn’t help but feel the view was deliberate. _ You are alone here, _ the creature seemed to be saying. _ I am _ not _ like you. Do not speak to me as though we are equals. _It’s gaping mouth opened again, displaying its blinding, sharkish grin, before it spoke once more, a note of admonishment still present in its broken voice: “You hold ownership over my hallows, Harry Potter. You were told this would lead to your acquisition of the title, ‘Master of Death’, though I doubt that is why you managed to achieve such a thing. You’re not the type to desire power in such a way,” it paused. “Am I correct?”

Harry nodded mutely, faintly aware of the horrified expression he wore. _ This did _ not _ sound good. _Not any measurable amount of good, or even of mediocrity--

“Well then,” the immortal started walking slowly towards him, and he unwittingly stumbled backwards, fright etched across his youthful face. It stopped, head cocked to one side in blatant amusement as it chuckled. “Consider the title acquired, Master of Death.”

_ Do you have any other names you go by, Harry James Potter? _

It made horrible sense now. 

“Make no mistake,” it drifted forward, ignoring Harry’s flinch as he forced himself to remain still, even though all he wanted to do in that moment was run, run, run. “You do not hold any governance over my being.”

“I don’t-- don’t understand,” he whispered haltingly. “Please.” It was a plea he couldn’t find the words for-- a desire for _ something, _ though he couldn’t be sure _ what. _

It seemed to hesitate then, suddenly, oddly, as though it wasn’t entirely sure of itself, which didn’t make any _ sense, _ and honestly Harry didn’t need this, because any uncertainty on the part of an immortal being could _ never _be considered favourable, not under any circumstances, and--

And then the moment passed, and the being-- Death-- Truth-- was smiling blindingly again, pearly, sharpened teeth still perfect and still terrifyingly threatening. “You were always meant to come here, Harry. It would never have been anyone else-- it could never have been anyone else. You were the only candidate, and the only one who would ever have been successful in reuniting the Hallows,” it looked at him then, as though it was seeing straight into his soul and a strange sort of kindness seemed to spring into those hollow eyes. It spoke again, its soft tone contrasting with the weight of its own damning words. “I suppose you could call it destiny, if you so wished.”

“I don’t,” Harry’s voice shook. “I don’t want your destiny. It-- it doesn’t have to be me. Anyone could have picked them up. Dumbledore, he--” he broke off, tasting salty tears. He touched his face, flinching when his hand came away wet. “Let it be someone else,” he whispered. “For once, _ please. _”

“I can’t do that,” Death was silent for a moment, as though allowing him the space to grieve-- to _ grieve, _ for what he’d lost, for what he was about to lose, but Harry couldn’t find it in himself to be grateful, not for _ this. _ “As for the man you speak of?” It’s words were still soft, but so damnatory. “He never held all three at once. I believe his record was two. The wand and the cloak-- oh and then he obtained the ring, didn’t he? But that was after he returned the cloak to you, it’s rightful owner.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry choked out, fear and sudden anger pulsing through his veins, an endless, burning pyre. “I don’t understand any of this, because it _doesn’t make sense._ Why is it me? Why is it always me? Who am I to you, _Death?” _he was crying now, harsh sobs that came from a place so deep within him, he hadn’t even known it existed. He was bawling, yelling an immortal being that could probably kill him, _would _probably kill him without a second thought, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Is this some kind of cosmic joke?” he wasn’t stupid, but just then he couldn’t help but feel it. Like he had half the story, and even then some of the pages were missing- and it didn’t help that the creature standing before him just _kept staring_, it’s gaze wide and intense, unwavering. “It could have been anyone,” he whispered. “I don’t care what you have to say about that. I know it could have been, so many came close. So _you _must have intervened. You_ wanted_ me to bring you the hallows. I just don’t understand, and--” a flash of realisation came to him, a memory, and he spoke wildly, accusingly. “You-- you saved me!”

Death stilled completely, something unidentifiable flitting across its expression, before it was gone in the next instant. 

“I mean,” Harry murmured, hurriedly. “I heard you. Something was going to happen, wasn’t it? Because you told me not to look, and to close my eyes, and then all the pain stopped. Then I was here. It-- it was going to be bad, I could feel it, and you protected me. What did you stop me seeing?” a fresh burst of adrenaline surged through him, and he yelled. “Answer me, damn it!”

“That is enough.”

He shuddered, a strangled sob escaping, unbidden, at the fire behind those three words. With just three words, his own blaze had been quenched, and he was left helpless, hopeless in the face of something far greater than he. 

“The Truth, Harry, is sometimes too great a burden to bear. It is not one I believe it wise for you to carry. Not right now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice broke.

“Most things you will learn in time,” It spoke as though Harry were a flighty, injured animal. Perhaps, to someone as timeless and as powerful as Death, that was what he appeared to be. “Some you will never know, for it is not your place to. Perhaps I will show you in time-- or perhaps you will find them out for yourself. I _ cannot _ give you answers, Harry. Someday, maybe, but _ that _ day will not be today.” 

Harry sobbed.

“Hush now,” it looked sorrowful. “Had I not shielded you from the Truth, you would have found a part of yourself to be taken. An equivalent exchange. You are right, Harry. There was a reason I saved you, but I did not have an ulterior motive,” it sighed heavily, it’s tone uncharacteristically solemn. “I simply tried to spare you pain.”

Tried to _ spare _ him _ pain _?

“I don’t believe you,” Harry voiced, coldly. “If you cared about _ that _, you wouldn’t have brought me here in the first place.”

“Believe it or don’t, it doesn’t matter either way,” was the unsatisfactory response. “You are needed elsewhere, it would not be right to keep you from your destination any longer.” Its humanoid figure moved fluidly towards him until they were standing side by side, and Harry could not tell if it had even been walking at all. “As for your purpose right now? Simply a delivery service. I believe you have something that belongs to me?”

Harry clutched the elder wand in his hand. It felt heavy, as though it wanted nothing more than to simply be let go. He didn’t know where it would go if he did drop it-- if the ground beneath his feet would exist for the wand as well. “If I give them to you,” he whispered, acutely aware of the invisibility cloak and the resurrection stone safely tucked into his pockets. “Will you let me go home?” he felt as though this was the end-- his last chance, and so he clung with all his might to the weight of his burden, feeling his spirit fall in tandem with his struggling arms. He felt in that moment as though the wind had been knocked out of him, his sails were down, and his body was struggling.

“I cannot.” 

“Why?” he crumbled, his shaking legs finally giving way, curling under him as he fell, dazed, to the floor. “You brought me here, Death. Why can’t you send me home?”

“When you united my hallows, a bond formed between us. That was what brought you here,” it was the first real answer he’d been given, but there was no satisfaction in that now.

“You made sure it was me,” Harry whispered, a feeling of betrayal twisting his empty stomach (though it wasn’t as though Death owed him any favours-- if anything, it was entirely the other way around. He’d evaded his own demise so many times-- turnabout is fair play.) “You chose me for this.”

The immortal inclined it’s head. “It was vital it be you.”

“But you can’t tell me why?”

“No.”

Harry shook his head, blinding tears tumbling over his reddened cheeks. “I just want to go home.”

“That gate is closed,” a freezing touch nearly had him recoiling, and he gasped as he raised his head, eyes drifting to the paper white fingers that gripped his shaking shoulder. “But there is another open for you, Harry James,” it knelt, brushing its other hand softly across Harry’s cheek. “I cannot send you back. You have somewhere else to be. If you are the bearer of my Hallows, then I am your deliverer. To a world in which you are needed. _ You, _ Harry James Potter _ , are their messiah. _”

“I don’t want to be,” Harry whispered. “I’m sick of saving people.” He could hear the lies fall from his tongue, the lies he almost desperately wished were true. He’d never be able to sit by and just watch as people were hurt, not when he was able to _ help _them, and he knew that Death knew this, that it was exploiting this inherent piece of him, and he hated it for that.

The immortal laughed, high and freezing, but the joke was lost on Harry, and he looked away-- away from that pitying, damning stare. “You’ll do it anyway, child.”

“And if I don’t?” Harry felt lost, as though he’d just been dropped into an impenetrable, unsolvable maze, and been told to find the way out. “If I refuse?”

Death smiled then, a knowing smile that caused his heart to quake with trepidation. “Only you can choose where your path leads, Harry.”

It was then that a strange breeze rushed through him, and for a moment he just shook, uncontrollable shivers wracking through his slight frame. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense, spasming wildly, before, in rapid succession, relaxing. The elder wand fell from his grasp and then seamlessly, as though it had never been any other way, the being which called itself Death held all three of its Hallows once more.

“Come,” It rose fluidly, grasping Harry’s hand in its own and lifting him to his feet. They walked together, towards the stone door, and even as the teenager tried to dig his heels into the ground, to pull back, he found he couldn’t. 

The great stone doors began to shift apart, and even through the gaping hole they left, Harry could only see the same expanse of nothingness. It made little sense, but in this place it didn’t seem as though sense mattered. Any meaning this void held was lost on the young wizard, and he was brutally aware that the immortal being beside him understood this completely.

“It’s time.” Death murmured. “Step through, child.”

For once, through fear of some stranger alternative, and plain, exhausting defeat, Harry obeyed.

And then he was being pulled apart again, torn by invisible hands, and the pain wasn’t any less than the first time-- raw and agonising, like flames licking his flesh, and burning through his veins. He didn’t scream this time though, just closed his eyes and let it wash over him, burning hot and cold at once, turning him to ash once again. A puzzle of cosmic dust for the universe to put back together, and when it finally ceased-- only then did he allow himself to cry out.

Then he was falling, falling, falling.

He found himself in sands, soft and gritty, and scorching hot in a way that burned his skin, though the pain was nothing compared to the fiery hands that had torn his very being apart. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, as he stared at a bright blue sky which looked so like his own and yet he knew it couldn't be. Grit fell into his mouth and ears, and his skin felt blistered under the sun’s scorching rays. He choked as coarse grains of sand threatened to flood his lungs, a harsh hacking cough that would have had him doubled over, had he been able to stand, and he vaguely wondered whether this would be the place he was going to die- if Death had gone to all that trouble, only to find a corpse buried in a mountain of sand.

His vision started to waver as he gasped for breath in a fearful panic. His head was pounding in tandem with his weakening heart, and his ears, already buried in the sand almost missed the shout-- a cry of fear and concern, and the pounding of feet that followed soon after.

Someone took his shoulders and pulled, sitting him up, holding his head high above the dunes that threatened to bury him. His vision blurred, and he reached out, grasping the strong hand that replied to his plea. He tilted his head, determined to see the face of his saviour, if only once before he slipped into the unconsciousness threatening to take him.

A pair of bright, crimson eyes burned through his darkening vision, before he tumbled into the soft embrace of sleep.


	2. Arc 1~ 2

Ishval, a territory of the country Amestris, encompassed three large cities and a collection of several smaller towns and villages that spanned much of the Eastern area, from just beyond the officially titled ‘East City’, all the way to the border of the great desert; an arid region that often struggled with water scarcity and minor famine, difficulties that had become even more pronounced as a civil war raged between the Ishvalan people of the East, and the occupying forces of the country’s central government.

Through a tiny settlement, one of those closest to the Amestrian border, a man of indistinguishable age strode brusquely, trudging the paths of rich clay and sand with a marked dogged tenacity. There were others, working and doing their duties, that tipped their hats to him, a mark of respect within the community. Other than that, though, they paid him little mind. He wasn’t a particularly important man-- educated, perhaps, and intelligent enough, but these traits had no use against the backdrop of the harsh conditions they relentlessly battled against, and yet found themselves at the mercy of, time and time again. In their world, survival meant endurance and strength of will, and these qualities were valued within the men and women of the village, creating a populace more tenacious than most, with little tolerance for outsiders, who were often spoken of with an air of disdain and derision. In a terrain such as this, those who weren’t native simply _ couldn’t _ comprehend the struggles they suffered through, even in keeping their own _ children _ thriving and healthy, and this lack of understanding led to enmity in the face of such ignorance.

The lack of interaction wasn’t something he particularly minded, rather at this time he was grateful for it. He had somewhere to be, somewhere he was needed, and though his walk was fast-paced, the matter at hand had left him with an unpleasantness in the pit of his stomach that refused to retreat. Distractions were not welcome, and most of the community appeared to sense this, giving him the space he was indirectly asking for to walk and just _ think. _

Except--

“Elliott! There you are!”

Except for his brother.

He paused, turning to greet the familiar voice he’d heard. “Jacob,” his tone was bereft of emotion, for he’d forcefully beaten down the ugly fury that had started rising within him. He bowed his head as he spoke; an appearance of respect among their circles-- for him, an attempt to disguise the resentment he knew festered, exposed in his crimson coloured eyes. “How is the family?” his words fell flat, and the meaningless platitude seemed to crumble, decaying as easily and quickly as his previously-- well, if not untroubled, then at the very least _ level _mood.

There was discontent in Jacob’s eyes, and Elliott thought that perhaps he hadn’t tried hard enough. “How is Sigrid?” he asked after his sister-in-law. The woman was ill with a sickness of the mind, and though his respect for his older brother did not extend beyond an arms reach, said brother’s wife was kindhearted, and the thought of her suffering so _ unnecessarily _ was indescribably saddening.

Jacob, to his (fairly limited, in Elliott’s opinion) credit, did not show his discomfort outwardly, instead smiling amicably as he spoke. “She’s doing okay, for the most part,” he paused, as if about to broach a topic he wasn’t sure would be appreciated. “Though we have had word from Ben yet. His mother’s out of her mind with worry.” 

Her son’s absence had likely done little to alleviate her pain.

“What about you?” the man continued. “Have you heard anything?”

Elliott’s mood soured somewhat further at the mention of his eldest son, and he pushed the thought and the subject away vehemently. “I’m afraid not.” 

Jacob heaved a sigh, solemn and stricken, and for once their eyes, identical shades of crimson red, burned with the same, terrified sorrow. “I don’t suppose anyone has. Not much time for writing where they are.” He hesitated. “Have you… I mean, _ the boy, _ has he woken yet?”

“No.”

“Ah, I see.” The other man was shifting uncomfortably. “It’s a very brave thing you’re doing, Elliott. A very brave thing indeed.”

_ Something _ you _ would never have done. _An unwelcome thought came, unbidden in his already unruly mind. Perhaps, on a calmer day, a more peaceful day, he’d have fought himself a little more, hidden it just a little better, As it was, he smiled tightly at his brother. “Thank you, Jacob.”

He could not truly blame the man for being intrusive. The reasons behind it came down to pure fear. Everyone had been put on edge by the recent events, and in all honesty he’d felt the same at first. It still stressed him-- he was still coasting on a wave of adrenaline that rose and fell at whim and left him feeling exhausted and jittery all at once and it had _ not _ been a good few days… and he’d been one of the _ calmer _ones. Perhaps his wife had been right about the insanity of the masses-- they seemed to forget that they were many, and the boy was but one, and yet he could not completely condemn them for their discomfort-- not without first condemning himself.

Not that he found himself unacquainted with _ that _particular brand of self destruction.

“And Lukas?” Jacob’s voice pulled him from his darkening thoughts. “He hasn’t met the boy, has he?”

“He’s elsewhere for now.” Elliott assured him.

“Oh, good,” the older man sighed, lowering his head. “That’s-- that’s good.”

Elliott regarded him. Jacob, though the older of the two brothers (by _ ten years, _ no less,) had never possessed spades of courage. _ Nor clubs, diamonds or hearts, _ was his wry thought. _ Definitely not hearts. Maybe not even one of them. _ The man preferred to keep his proverbial cards and his family close to his chest, and his nervousness was palpable amidst the torrid atmosphere. Because his _ younger _brother (never mind that Elliott was forty-five years old, never mind that) was housing a potential threat. He’d feel touched, were it not bitterly obvious that the man’s own skin was his older sibling’s main (perhaps only genuine) concern. It was a solid reminder of Jacob’s special brand of cowardice-- the same self-serving dastard he’d shown himself to be, all those years ago. 

His mouth thinned. “Is that all, Jacob?” this time he couldn’t hide the strain-- not then, not on the afternoon of that dry, blistering day-- his worries many, and any moments of peace few and far between.

“Elliott--”

“Not right now, please,” he ignored the hurt that crossed his brother’s face, suppressing the pang of guilt that followed soon after (why did he feel guilty, _ why, _ remember what he did-- _r__emember what he did). _ He did _ not _ need this, not on this day, not when he was already stretched far past his breaking point _ . _ “I really must be going.” 

“Of course,” Jacob nodded swiftly, before closing his eyes as if composing himself. “You get back to your wife and that poor boy. They need you there,” he turned to go, but not before Elliott noticed the lingering look of _ longing _ the man had given him. “Good luck, brother.”

He swallowed, suddenly filled with so many contradictions he could hardly think straight. The day that had pulled them a chasm apart lay vacant, yet unyielding, and his eyes burned as he turned away, heaviness in his heart. “You as well.”

His brother left then, and he waited until the footsteps had faded before he resumed his purposeful strides. A sense of urgency came over him, an ominous chill in the burning heat that he’d never felt before, and wished he’d never have to feel again, and his pace quickened to a run and then a sprint, even as the sun beat down with a vengeful fever.

* * *

It was within minutes that Elliott found himself inside his home. He was breathing heavily, leaning against the front door as his pulse hammered.

He straightened his clothes, taking gulps of cool, sheltered air as he did so. Better to appear to have some semblance of self-composure, than to frighten his already fraught wife. She had enough to be troubled over as it was, and the misgivings he held for his long-distant past were his own cross to bear. His neuroses were just one droplet in an ocean of strife-- the current situation notwithstanding-- for the civil war still raged, and his brother was on the same side as he was. It wasn’t the time for petty sibling squabbles, no matter how ancient. That much was clear-- and in that way, perhaps Jacob _ was, _for all intents and purposes, acting well in his role of older brother. 

He removed his cloak and hood, worn only to protect his head from the blazing desert sun, and the vibrant heat it cast, hanging it on the coat stand. Compelled by his own fears, he turned towards the room that housed the child, sure he would find his wife still faithfully by the boy’s bedside. 

Standing by the doorway, he heard her gentle voice, muffled, but still very much alive. Relief flooded through him, for he’d been genuinely afraid, and he turned the handle, entering silently as he took in the scene before him. 

A woman knelt beside the bed, gently bathing the shallow cuts that marred the boy resting within. She stroked his dark hair, making soft, comforting noises when the boy groaned, his young face pinched in obvious pain.

His young, Amestrian face. 

“Nova.”

The woman-- Nova-- looked up at him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Elliott,” she murmured in greeting. Those who didn’t know her well would not have heard the tremor in her voice, or the way her burgundy eyes shimmered ever so slightly, as though desperately holding in tears-- but Elliott _ did _ know her well, and so the sight before him broke his heart. 

She was a stunning woman, and, at least in his mind, far too beautiful for him, with a heart far larger than his own. Her eyes were gentle, always gentle, even when burning with righteous anger, and her hair fell in sheets of white silk. Her face was tanned deep brown, and etched with creases that told of laughter and smiles and warmth. It was the beauty of age that struck him, for it had been age they’d worn together, twenty-seven odd years of it. He loved her, and damn it all, he knew she loved him too. They were together, and would be together ‘till the end of their lives, and he wanted nothing more to _ tell her again, _ right then and there, that he’d make good on their marriage vows, make good on his promises.

He would have done, would have knelt and shown her his devotion, had it not been for the boy, face wretched in his feverish slumber, bundled, protected, into his firstborn son’s bed.

His displeasure must have shown, for Nova rose, reaching and cupping his cheek in her small palm. She glanced once more at the child, whose youth seemed ever-present, swathed in clean, white linen, before murmuring: “He’ll sleep a little longer, I think.” 

Ushering them both from the room, she led him into their modest, tidy kitchen, leaving him at the door as she filled the kettle, leaving it over the stove to boil. “I’ll have to wake him, soon.” She seemed to speak only to herself, though Elliott knew the words were meant for him too. “He needs to eat, or he’ll never recover.” 

Her hands were clutching the counter-top, knuckles white under the strain, and he winced, moving forward to take them into his own. “He’ll recover, Nova,” he whispered, pulling her into his arms. “That boy will be okay.” 

_ Whether _ we _ will be is another story, _ the thought came, unfettered, and he swallowed heavily. The risk they were taking by housing that boy-- the risk his _ wife _ took, just being at his bedside, chilled him to the bone. The presence of this potential enemy, this-- this _ child _ left him truly afraid, and for that, he felt great shame, because the figure in that scrawny cot was so damn young.

“I know he frightens you, Elliott.” Nova knew, of _ course _ she did. She knew him better than anyone.

It had, of course, been his wife (who else, because really, there wasn’t anyone) volunteering to house the boy, when nobody else had been willing. Rightly so, he’d believed at the time, for the danger the young Amestrian posed to their children proved too perilous to chance it- or so he’d thought until Nova had scoffed at them, proclaiming them cowards. She had an ire that got the best of her at times, but the fury in her gaze as each and every man and woman turned away from the injured child, lying prone in the hot sands, was something he’d never seen in her before.

The moment he’d opened his mouth to protest, she’d turned away from him, saying, “You _ know _ we have a spare room, Elliott.” That had settled it, because as fearful as he’d felt, the truth was that she was _ right, _and when the only other option was leaving a young boy to die, well, there hadn’t really been a choice to begin with.

“Can you blame me?” He answered, pulling away to set the table, placing the worn china on the strong oak. “I’m.. worried. For us. For Lukas.” His twelve-year-old was too young to see such violence. _ Too damn young. _ “The boy’s an _ Amestrian _ . He was probably wounded fighting _ us.” _

Nova was silent for a moment, contemplative, and Elliott could practically see the gears turning in her head, before she finally spoke, her voice worn from the exhaustion the days spent at the youth’s bedside. “The age of enlistment is twenty. Do you really think that child is a soldier?”

He considered this. The boy did look a shade young for the army-- and, if he was being honest with himself, just a little older than his second son. He certainly hadn’t reached adulthood, and a cursory glance had told him the child was most likely halfway through his second decade of life, a good thirty years younger than Elliott himself. Both the ability to enlist, and the status of adulthood came on a youth’s twentieth birthday. _ This _ youth _ was _far too young, in theory.

That didn’t mean anything though, boys lied about their age to fight in armies. It was the way of this country. ‘Fight for Amestris’, the children were told, and then, on the other side of the curtain, _ their side, _ the idiom had been, ‘fight for Ishvala’. This was a battle in which both sides had behaved monstrously, telling the young to throw their own lives away in the hope that their children could save them all. In a time like this, he couldn’t put it past the current establishment to look the other way. This boy could easily be a soldier. It was a disgusting thought, but that didn’t make it any less true.

Then again, he considered, as he watched the kettle start to shiver, and then whistle, if the child _ was _ a soldier, did that mean he wasn’t deserving of their help? He didn’t truly know the answer to that, but he knew that Nova, with her gentle hands and soothing words, would give that help to the boy anyway-- and he would give his own help to her. That child was under his protection now, as begrudging as his shelter was, and in that, he would make sure the boy did not come to harm.

“You know,” she spoke, when he didn’t reply. “I’m not even sure he _ is _ Amestrian.”

That got his attention.“What?” he couldn’t hide his disbelief, and he winced as he saw the frustration evident in her expression, but he couldn’t just let what she’d uttered slide. “What are you _ talking _about?”

“What I said,” there was impatience in her tone now, her eyes cool as she glared at him. “I don’t think he’s Amestrian.”

“He looks Amestrian.” Elliott objected, head still reeling from his wife’s assertion. “I saw his eyes, before he passed out. There’s no way he’s of Ishvalan descent, they were bright green.” Bright emeralds, a stunning colour. In different circumstances, another world, perhaps, that boy might have been popular in his age group.

Nova smiled at this, her expression thawing a little. “He’s a handsome boy,” she shook her head, a small amount of pride in her otherwise troubled tone. She seemed to hesitate, as though about to divulge a secret which wasn’t hers to tell. “He’s spoken in his sleep,” was what she finally said. “The words-- they don’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard before.”

Huh.

“He’s spoken?” Elliott frowned, his thoughts whirling in a storm of confusion-- this, this was new_ , _uncharted territory. “Maybe-- if we could find someone to translate--”

“No,” Nova shook her head, dissatisfaction evident in her wavering tone. “In his sleep, as I said, not...” she took a breath. “Not _ lucidly, _ you understand. Broken sentences, at a guess. Though I don’t know, considering I don’t understand the few words he’s actually saying.” She was frustrated, with _ herself _ no less, as though her inability to help the child was somehow her fault.

Elliott reached over and took her hand. _ You’re not at fault, _ the gesture seemed to say. _ This was never something we could have predicted. _“Could he be from Xing?” The suggestion bore thinking about at the very least, with the dark head of hair the boy sported. The journey across the great desert from Xing to Ishval was an arduous one, but it was not, in its entirety, impossible.

“Perhaps,” Nova allowed. “We’ll know soon enough when the boy wakes up and can actually talk in complete sentences. I’ve still got my linguistics books lying around somewhere.” She sighed. “I don’t think he’s dangerous though. He wasn’t even armed when we found him, and he’s..” her mouth twisted bitterly, then. “He’s been crying too. What little he says sounds fearful. He’s been through something, Elliott. Something bad. It’ll only get worse if the rest of the village treats him like an outcast. He’s so _ young. _”

“When he wakes up,” Elliott promised. “If he really is from another country, I’ll make sure to inform the elders. They have nothing against the children of foreign lands.”

“Only of our own,” Nova murmured forlornly.

Elliott said nothing. In these times, as terrible and as broken as it was, anyone could be a threat.

Even a child.

Nova sighed heavily, weariness evident as she crumbled in on herself, sinking into the seat at the head of the kitchen table, eyes closing briefly, before opening wide again, saturated with disillusion and turmoil. “I just don’t understand why a child of another country would be injured so close to our village. I’ll admit it’s suspicious, odd even.” She spared him another glance, this one far more considerate. “How _ did _ you find the boy, again?”

“Oh,” Elliott frowned. “That.. that was odd too, actually.” It really was. Strange in a very unsettling way, yet not as such that he could actually pinpoint the reason for it. In the confusion and fear, he’d all but forgotten.

His wife nodded, looking unruffled. She didn’t speak, a sure sign that she expected him to go on.

“It was like he’d just.. appeared.”

Nova raised her eyebrows, wearing an expression of disbelief.

“I was patrolling the village walls,” he whispered, memories of _ that day _ becoming clearer. “I thought I’d checked that place when I’d walked past it, and there’d been nothing there but the sand dunes.” He sucked in a sharp breath, disturbed by the images brought to the forefront of his mind. “I heard his moan the second time around, and so I checked. I thought one of the villagers had gotten hurt.” 

“But it was the boy, not any of the villagers as you’d originally thought,” she muttered softly, brows drawn pensively.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you didn’t miss him the first time?”

“I’m not positive.” Elliott shrugged, after all, it was possible the boy had simply been unconscious, unable to make a sound during the first round of his patrol. “I don’t think I did. We’re careful these days. Any village could be the next one hit.”

Nova’s eyes narrowed, a tinge of irritation in the dark red orbs. “You men all talk as though we’re being attacked, as though _ we’re _ the victims.” she spoke scornfully, bitterness harsh on her tongue. “The truth is we’ve hurt just as many Amestrians as they have us, most of those poor soldiers little more than _ children. _”

Like her own son. Elliott swallowed convulsively, stopping that train of thought with all his might. “There’s been talk,” was what he finally said, voice low, as though hiding in the shadows were those he was about to speak of. “Talk that they’re going to bring alchemists into this.”

He couldn’t help but flinch at Nova’s sharp gasp. She, too, knew what it would mean for them if the alchemists that the state had been collecting, had been luring with money, prestige, _ power, _ were weaponized. It was something that he could not-- _ did not want to-- _bear thinking about.

His wife was silent for a moment staring at the table cloth, quiet despair in eyes that were usually so full of fire, before she shook her head, almost abruptly. “They won’t,” she finally spoke, voice trembling in a way that suggested even _ she _ did not believe what she was saying. “They want to control us, not kill us all. This is a civil war, Elliott. Not some kind of massacre.”

Elliott placed his hand over hers, settling in the chair adjacent to her. “Of course, Nova,” he murmured. He desperately hoped she was right, for if the Amestrians brought the State Alchemists into the fray, any hope of winning this foul war was lost.

“Sigrid came by earlier.” Nova suddenly said, her words breaking him free of the dark trajectory his thoughts had been travelling. “She’s worried about Freya.”

“Hmm?” Elliott raised his eyebrows, grateful for the subject change- though he suspected it had been Nova’s own tumultuous fears that had compelled her to do so. Still, he went with it, smiling gently at his wife as he answered, “Well, that’s not exactly new, is it?”

Nova, for her part, shot him a scathing look. “I happen to think she’s right to be,” she sighed, placing her loosely interlocked hands on the table. “She’s not handling Ben’s absence well.”

“Freya or Sigrid?”

“Neither,” Nova smiled wryly, then. “Though I was talking about your niece. When this ordeal with the boy has been dealt with, we should have them over for dinner, a nice, family meal.”

Elliott hesitated. He didn’t know how fond he was of _ that _ idea. “I actually ran into Jacob on my way here.” He tried to keep his tone unburdened but knew immediately from his wife’s reaction that he hadn’t managed, and he winced internally.

“Oh?” Nova’s eyebrows shot up. “You were pleasant to him, were you not?”

“Perfectly civil.” He was struggling to keep the bitterness from his words, and he knew it. He gave in completely, frustration showing full force on his face as he bit out, “Not that the bastard deserves it.”

“He practically raised you, Elliott.” Nova spoke quietly, a mixture of disapproval and pity in her voice. “What happened wasn’t his fault-”

“Like hell it wasn’t!” Elliott rounded on his wife, his voice raised in fury. “He wouldn’t have had to if he hadn’t been such a damn _ coward--” _

A wounded cry from his oldest son’s bedroom cut him short, and he felt silent, shame heavy in the wake of his outburst. He _ never _ shouted at her, not like that. He prided himself on his patience, his ability to defuse a situation, and his failure in doing so, his mistake in rising to an imaginary foe, weighed crushingly on his conscience.

“You woke him.” Nova said, shortly. She stood up, avoiding eye contact as she deftly prepared the tea-- chamomile, he realised, to calm to poor boy

“Nova--” He pushed himself to his feet, catching her arm from across the table. “I’m sorry, darling.”

The hard look on her face softened slightly, but her lips remained pursed and her eyes were serious. “We don’t have the luxury of carrying grudges anymore, Elliott. At a time like this, forgiveness…” She trailed off, perhaps knowing that it wasn’t fair to demand that of him.

Still, he squeezed her arm lightly. “I know.” He said. “I’ll try. When we’ve figured out what to do with the boy, invite them to dinner like you said.”

“Once we’ve figured it out,” the side of Nova’s mouth quirked into a half smile, though it was accompanied by a steely glint in her eyes, and Elliott felt a jolt of fear, wondering exactly what it was he’d said to provoke that reaction. “I’ll bring him something to eat too, I think,” she continued, pulling away to plate some bread and cheese. “It must be days since he’s eaten, maybe longer. I can’t imagine food is easy to come by stranded in the middle of a desert.”

As she left, brew and aliment in her hands as though she were wielding a weapon, Elliott allowed the smile to fall, his fear still ever present, carrying a burden he thought might crush him if he ever let it. In the wake of the war, with the world they’d carefully constructed for themselves on the edge of falling apart, they couldn’t even rely on each other. They’d be their own destruction, every last damn one of them hellbent on their own selfish wants and desires. He’d sent his eldest son into war without a thought, and he wasn’t the only one who’d done so, their own fears and the weakness that came with age preventing the mass of older, mature adults from fighting for themselves- an act of true cowardice, and one he would bear the shame of until the day he died.

Nova was kind. In the depths of his heart, he felt as though he didn’t truly deserve her, and that was what kept him going, pushed him forward despite the dangers of the world around them-- because her existence, though rare, was not, _ could not be _, an isolated phenomenon. There were people who were good, and kind, and it was all he could do to hope that they would eventually triumph over the evil that had dug its claws into their land.

He heard another fearful cry, one that pierced through his heart like a dagger before his wife’s dulcet tones soothed the tears and wails of the terrified, _ young _ boy.

  
She _ was _good, but above all else, when there was a child to attend to, she was a mother. That, he decided, was truly the most beautiful thing about her.


	3. Arc 1~ 3

_ A high, cold laugh. _

_ A young man’s desperate shout, “take Harry and run!” _

_ Soft hissing. “Stand aside you silly girl.” _

_ The begging pleas of a young woman. “Not, my baby, take me. Take me instead.” _

_ A flash of green light, a burning pain. _

Again.

_ A ugly face spitting uglier words, meaty hands clutching the front of his oversized shirt, shaking him, over and over, until his head aches and his nose is bleeding, and he’s crying-- _

_ “Freak,” spits the face. _

_ “No,” he whispers. “Not a freak.” _

_ The hands multiply. _

_ “Freak.” They jeer. “Freak, Freak, Freak, Freak-” _

_ “No!” He screams. “No--” _

Again.

_ “You’re a wizard Harry.” _

_ “I’m a what?” _

_ “A wizard.” _

Again.

_ “There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.” _

_ “You liar!” _

Again.

_ “Ginny, please don’t be dead. Wake up, wake up!” _

Again.

Again.

Again.

_ “Kill the spare.” _

_ “Sirius!” _

_ “You coward! Fight back!” _

Again.

Again.

_ “You’re a wizard Harry.” _

_ “Tell the  _ Truth.”

Again.

_ Unbearable heat-- hot, fiery flames licking his skin, ash coating his body. _

_ He tries to brush it away, but as he does more appears, burning dust that melts his flesh, and he howls in pain, desperately clawing at his arms, his legs, everything-- _

_ Pain. Pain, pain, pain. _

_ But he is the dust. He is the one burning and charred and falling apart because he is a log on the fire, fuel for the flames, a burning missile, an atom bomb, waiting to break and burn and pull apart the world beneath his feet. _

_ There is nothing to do but cry-- nothing, nothing but-- _

“No!”

Harry woke with a sob dying in his throat.

He lay trembling for a moment, face damp with cold sweat and hot tears, harsh breaths tearing at his throat and burning his lungs as he grappled for oxygen in the torrid air. 

A knot of fear settled in his stomach and began to retch. He was drowning, he was sure of it. Drowning in the black lake. Falling deeper and deeper into its fathomless depths. Pulled down, down, down as he choked on water and vomited water and wasn’t he dying, because it felt like he was, and--

“ _ Are you really going to use my own wand against me?” _

“No!” he choked. “No, no!”

He  _ was  _ drowning. He couldn’t breathe, or see, or hear anything.

_ “He’s just a boy!” _

_ “You are their messiah.” _

A soft crooning noise gave him pause, and for a moment the phantasm faded. A soft voice was singing. The words of the song made no sense to him, but the sound was soothing-- a balm to his crowded head. Smooth hands stroked his hair, exuding a pressure that fought the tightness in his chest and calming his erratic breathing, and air,  _ precious air,  _ finally made its way into his lungs.

A flash of green light plagued his vision, and a woman’s dying scream echoed in his ears. He could die in so many more ways than drowning. He knew, because he had. He’d died and he’d died and--

_ “Avada Kedavra.”  _

A pair of arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The singing voice started to speak, and the sounds were gentle, though meaningless to him. They loosened the crushing weight on his lungs and he felt the rhythmic sway as he was rocked back and forth. The faint smell of flowers and fresh laundry was pleasant, was nice, sure not a nightmare,  _ surely _ , and the terror fell from his eyes, soaking the shoulder he clung to in a kind of desperate fervour. He couldn’t tell the difference between his dreams and reality, and that should have shaken him-- it  _ should have,  _ but flowers were nice and this was nice, and if this was the dream then it was a good one.

He cried until his eyes burned and he had to stop, but even then he shook with tearless sobs. Whoever held him did nothing but gently sing a soft lullaby full of senseless words and he found himself slowly rid of the fear that had grown so strong. The songs reached his ears, stilling his trembling and halting his cries, and even as he finally pulled back, the hands remained on his shoulders, anchoring him firmly in the world of the waking. He was awake. He was awake. What a lovely respite for reality to give him.

“Thank you,” he whispered as he looked into deep, burgundy eyes, the oddness of the colour not really registering even as he stared, relief palpable in his voice. Those eyes held confusion, and though he did not know the source, he found it did not trouble him.

The person holding him was a woman. Her face was lined-- not entirely by age, he realised, for she was too young to be considered elderly, but by how well she wore her soft smile. She had a motherly look about her, and his heart clenched for the parents he’d once had. Those he’d known and that had perished, and those he’d never had the chance to.

“Who are you?” There was something odd, he realised, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on-- the way she’d sung, her perplexed frown when he talked, and something cold and desperate rose up within him, once again,  _ (too good to be true, of course, reality is cruel) _ and he choked as he whispered with blinding tears. “Can you understand me?”

The woman’s eyebrows drew together, and she shook her head minutely-- but not in a way that convinced him she knew what he’d said. She spoke again and he didn’t understand a word, and his breathing near stopped.

No.

A surge of anger, no, of  _ rage _ coursed through him, and he buried his head in his hands to hide it. He didn’t want to scare the woman who’d cared, but he was slowly remembering what he’d wanted to forget. Death. Truth. That terrible, terrible place of  _ emptiness,  _ gnawing at the corners of his mind. In all honesty, he felt like he’d travelled to hell and returned with nothing to show from it. 

He could barely keep the words from utterance.

_ Damn Death. _

He  _ should _ have expected this, when he’d stepped through that gate. Not that he’d had any kind of choice, but he should have realised how bloody damning the whole thing was. How absolutely bloody difficult it was going to be stranded in a bloody foreign  _ universe,  _ and to have been given  _ nothing,  _ not one  _ iota _ of help, such as  _ maybe  _ being given the ability to  _ speak the  _ bloody _ language-- _

A bubble of hysterical laughter erupted from him, and he clapped his hands over his mouth, humiliation taking hold as he realised how unstable he must seem. The expression in the woman’s eyes was wary now, and he turned his head, flushing in shame.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, glancing up through his lashes at her, cheeks burning.

This, at least, she appeared to understand. A flicker of amusement crossed her face before it reverted to a solemn state, only the smallest twitching of her lips betraying the fleeting mirth, and she patted his cheek consolingly.  _ It’s okay. _

She stood and crossed to the other side of the room, busying herself in front of an old oak desk. The furniture was worn, but clearly well taken care of and it made him smile. Despite everything, this place seemed so much more like a  _ home _ than Privet Drive ever had, and there was a small amount of satisfaction in this realisation. He would never have to set foot in that place again, no matter what happened now, and he sighed in a quiet relief. He would never have to see them again.

He let his eyes wander, taking inventory of his surroundings with the curiosity of someone much younger. The room itself was well-lit, the soft gleam of the setting sun shining through the ample window, bathing the cream walls in a muted, golden glow. The sheets he lay in were fresh, tucked into the space between the mattress and oak bed frame, swaddling him as if he were a child again. There was a chest of drawers, carved from the same, heavy material as the rest of the furniture, and on the other side of the door a bookcase stood tall and imposing, filled with smudges of colour that he supposed must be a number of different books. He couldn’t know for sure without his glasses, though, something that, rather than irritating him like it used to, he accepted as a simple fact. He’d deal with it as he always had done. 

On the floor, adjacent to the bed, there was a wash basin, and a cloth marred with bloody streaks, dry and flaking from the thin material. There was a lot of blood, and with a strange sort of panic he realised it must have been his own.

The woman turned back to him carrying a plate of bread, and a steaming mug of something- most likely tea, though he wasn’t sure. She set both on the bedside table, next to--

He froze as he took in the sight before him.

His glasses, and the wand-- hawthorn wood, ten inches, encasing a core of unicorn hair, both undamaged by the fall.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He took his possessions, lifting the glasses to his face and blinking as the world’s edges sharpened again, and clutched at the wand, the reluctant thrum of magic washing through him, easing his distress a little. The wand had never quite gotten over it’s change in ownership, and it could be a little difficult at times, but Harry relished in the familiar feeling.

There was a sudden, harsh sound, reverberating through the walls and though this shouldn’t have scared him, he cried out fearfully, his back ramrod straight as he made startled eye contact with the woman who had been pulling the desk chair over to the bed. She’d frozen halfway across the room, a concerned look on her face, confusion evident, because really, he’d reacted over  _ nothing _ . Harry swallowed, feeling suddenly guilty. This woman was clearly just a kind muggle. She meant him no harm, he was sure. He had no reason to be so afraid, and he didn’t understand why the slightest noise could turn him into a quivering mess-- he’d just survived-- no he’d just  _ won _ a war. He shouldn’t be this fragile, it didn’t make  _ sense,  _ and yet here he was, verging on a breakdown after one loud noise.

He forced himself to relax, his breathing harsh and unsteady but slowly calming. He could feel tears burning at the edge of his vision again, and he blinked them away hastily. “It’s okay,” he whispered quietly, well aware that none of his words would be understood, and yet feeling the necessity to speak. “I’m sorry, I was just startled. Please don’t worry.”

There must have been something in his expression, because her eyes took on an empathetic sheen and she gently placed the chair back onto its four legs. The edge of the mattress dipped as she perched sideways on it, and she reached for the mug. She offered it, clearly distancing herself from him. Something that, given her earlier attempts to comfort him, was for his sake and not hers.  _ She  _ didn’t view him as dangerous, but as ungrateful as it made him, he couldn’t bring himself to trust her kindness. The last time he’d trusted kindness he’d been betrayed, and he couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t happen a second time.

His hands shook as he gripped the handle, staring at the steaming liquid inside as though it were about to bite him. The truth was that no matter how kind the woman appeared to be, in the end it could all be an act. He couldn’t trust the drink not to be poisoned or drugged, or tampered with- with  _ something. _ He knew better than anyone that evil ran rampant no matter the world or universe it belonged to. Muggle or magic, there were those who could and would inflict pain.

“I-- I can’t--” he shook his head, and the drink was taken from him.

Something in the woman’s face shattered, pain suddenly present in her dark eyes as she brought the mug to her own lips, slowly sipping it until only half remained. There was something raw in her expression, and an insistent understanding beneath it. She mimed the action, before speaking a word that to Harry sounded like a random string of syllables.

He blinked, confused before realisation struck him, and he repeated her, sipping the hot tea. She was teaching him, showing him the words she used, the language she spoke, and he blinked back hot tears of gratitude. She’d  _ known.  _ She knew he was scared, knew  _ why _ he was scared, but she hadn’t been offended, simply shown him that she could be trusted, and that she  _ would  _ help him, despite the barrier between them. She was offering to teach him, and beneath the fear and the anxiety, and the loss he was feeling so deeply, a glimmer of hope sparked into existence. He spoke again, working the word around his tongue, forehead creased in concentration at the strange combination of sounds falling from his lips. 

She shared out the food into two halves, eating her own before offering Harry his, and then teaching him again, until he spoke the words confidently, and she appeared satisfied with his pronunciation, an odd sort of pride gleaming in her eyes. Her pleased expression caused something within him to uncoil, the sickness he’d felt to lessen just a little bit, and he was struck by the inexplicable notion that despite knowing nothing about this woman, his trust was not misplaced. Not this time.

She took the crockery from him when he finished, before tucking him into the warm bed, humming the same, soothing lullaby she’d sung earlier. She fussed a moment, turning the covers down and plumping the pillows behind him before sitting, closer than before, but Harry found that he didn’t really mind, the gesture comforting rather than a cause for fright.

Her gaze met his, and behind the gentleness there was an odd intensity that made him- well, not exactly  _ nervous _ , but something similar- and she moved, placing her left hand over her heart as she stroked his hair with her right, a rhythmic attempt to ameliorate his panic. She spoke, more words he didn’t understand at first, or so he thought, but as she repeated the same phrase over and over he began to realise what it was she was trying to say.

“ _ Nova Byrne.” _

Her name.

His mind swirled with a million thoughts, too tangled to properly sort out, and in the complexity it was all he could do to repeat what he’d heard.

“ _ Nova,”  _ he mumbled, pushing the syllables past his stupid tongue, which felt too heavy and thick in his mouth. “ _ Nova.” _

_ Nova _ smiled, pleasure evident in her eyes.

He could feel his heart beating wildly, watching her reaction closely as he placed a palm over his own chest. She was a muggle, and there was no possible way for anyone in this land, whether or not the wizarding world had any place here, to know him by name. Still, the fear was there, present as long as he contemplated speaking the words aloud, but he couldn’t refuse, not after the kindness and the trust the woman had shown him.

He took a shaking breath, mouth suddenly dry with panic, and he whispered, voice almost inaudible even in the silence that stretched between them.

“Harry Potter.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Harry,” she repeated. There was no reaction, no surprise, no notion of recognition in those compassionate, burgundy eyes. This kind muggle knew nothing of him-- had left the wand on the table as though it were a toy, not knowing it’s capacity to hurt. She  _ trusted  _ him, and for the first time he considered that perhaps she  _ shouldn’t. _ He was a threat to her in a way she didn’t understand,  _ couldn’t _ understand, and the realisation was a cold, lonely one.

Something inside him broke-- his tenuous hope crumbling as he finally understood that what he’d been dreading was the case was actually true. He was completely, and utterly alone. He’d never been one to enjoy the attention that came with his fame, but he’d been looking, stupidly he now knew, for a parallel, a connection to the home he’d been torn from- something that meant he wasn’t by himself in this strange, new world that for of its similarities felt as though it were a poor substitute for his own. He doubted England even existed here, that there was anyone that he’d be able to talk to at all. It was a feeling of being lost that he’d never quite experienced before, of desolation that left him bereft and, well, lonely.

The woman was trying to get his attention. He realised belatedly that she’d been waving repeatedly in his face, and making a strange gesture with her hands, and it took Harry a minute of blinking stupidly at her before he understood what it was she was trying to say.

Fifty. She was fifty years old. He nodded his understanding, raising both his hands and flashing them five times. Fifty.

She took his hand, an expectant look on her worn face, clearly wanting him to replicate the gesture. She spoke another stream of words which Harry could only guess were the equivalent of asking the question, ‘How old are you?’

It was a childish exercise, but the innocence and silliness of the act caused a small, surprised smile to spring, unbidden, in his solemn countenance. He wondered whether this had been intentional-- if the amusement on  _ Nova’s  _ face was anything to go by, it probably had been-- as he reciprocated, holding ten fingers up, and then another seven. Seventeen years old.

_ Nova _ ’s eyes dimmed in a kind of inexplicable sadness that made his own heart hurt. She pushed his fringe away from his face, thumbing the vivid scar that marred his forehead with a gentle hand. She was trying to comfort him, he realised, even in the depths of her confusing despair, and he leaned into the touch, his eyes slipping closed as grief welled within him. There was a raw, burning pain in his chest-- loneliness, a feeling of longing and with that came a sudden guilt. Despite her kindness, her compassion, the trust she’d given him, without ever asking for his, he didn’t want comfort from  _ her.  _

He wanted-- he wanted  _ them _ . His friends, his family. They were so far away, somewhere he’d never be able to return to, and it  _ hurt.  _ He’d never again feel the warmth of the hugs Molly Weasley would bestow upon him, as if she was trying to make up for everything he’d lacked. He’d never be able to laugh the way he used to with Ron, or listen to Hermione excitedly explain something unnecessarily complicated she’d read in the restricted section-- honestly he’d probably learned more from  _ her _ than half of the lessons he’d had in school, and then there was--

Ginny.

He loved her. 

_ He loved her. _

“No,” he whispered, his throat suddenly tight, unable to swallow back the tears that began falling, faster and harder than he’d thought possible. “No, please, Death. Please tell me you didn’t take her from me too.”

He received no answer from the silent world around him except his own, stricken cries.

“No!” He started to  _ bawl,  _ harsh, halting sobs that tore his lungs to shreds and left him gasping for air as if he were starved of oxygen, plentiful though it was. “No, no, no. Let me go back, Death! Let me go back!” He started shaking, his cries turning to an unyielding panic that gripped at his insides and tugged at his mind in a strange, fear-driven frenzy. “Please, please, please, just let me  _ go home!  _ I  _ need her,  _ I need her,  _ please.” _

He couldn’t  _ breathe _ without her.

_ Nova _ was shushing him, reaching out, and he let her hold him complacently as he shook, mind blank with the sudden knowledge that he would never,  _ ever _ see her again. He was numb and furious all at once, an ocean of anger hidden beneath the storm of complete and utter  _ despair. _

Death  _ had _ taken something from him.

_ Equivalent exchange,  _ he remembered hearing. 

_ Had I not shielded you from the truth, you would have found a part of yourself to be taken. _

_ But I have,  _ he thought, desperately.  _ You  _ have _ taken something from me. _

The unconditional love given by another  _ has _ no equivalent.


	4. Arc 1~ 4

He measured time in days now, for hours had not proved to make a marked difference, and there hadn’t been enough days to count the weeks yet. The sun had risen twice since the boy had awoken, and four times since he’d been found, bruised and half-dead in the desert sands. What little he had said, through the confusion and tears, had confirmed them all that whatever reason he had for being there, he certainly wasn’t a threat. The chances of any child willingly becoming a soldier for the Amestrian military, when he couldn’t even understand the language, were slim to none-- and it was the understanding of this that had calmed Elliott’s hammering heart, loosening the pressure that had been brewing in his chest from the moment he’d set eyes on the boy.

He could see, too, that Nova had begun to care for the child. Her unease as she’d recounted why the boy  _ couldn’t possibly  _ be a danger had been palpable, and when the Elders had announced a unanimous decision for the boy’s protection, she’d nearly wept. She’d stayed with him, bathing his wounds, and wiping his sweat-soaked brow when the fever began to rage-- the illness that had taken hold of the child the past day had erased all traces of the lucidity he’d gained upon waking. When nightfall came the screams were sickening; the words uttered tortured and broken. They weren’t the cries of a child, afraid of the monster under the bed, fearful of the unknown, but of a boy who’d  _ seen _ the demons that plagued humanity, who  _ knew  _ what was lurking in the shadows _ ,  _ and whose tears were tears of horror.

It was taking an emotional toll on his wife, and if he were being honest, on himself as well. 

Not for the first time, he thanked Ishvala that he’d at least had the sense to send his youngest son to stay with Nova’s mother. Though the woman had no patience for Elliott, she doted on her grandchildren. She blamed him, he knew, for his oldest boy’s absence, and he found it hard to fault her for it. He’d sent his son to battle, told him to go with his head held high, damn the consequences. She  _ was  _ right.

It had been almost seven years since then, and in all that time there was never any relief, never any respite. The terror he felt each and every day, the racing heart that could never be calmed, and the knowledge that every minute spent was another minute his son could be dying was a torment he deserved to bear, and only for the sake of his child did he wish the torment would cease. He’d sent him into the jaws of a monster, without a moment's thought as to whether he’d get him back in one piece. 

His mother-in-law loved her grandchildren, and to that love, her fear for their lives was tantamount. They were allies in that sense, and she’d done what she could to protect his youngest child from the inevitable corrosion of his innocence; her sharp tongue and wrathful fury reserved for lesser beings than her angel of a grandson. If Lukas had to bear witness to the sorrowful state of the boy they’d taken in, he thought his own heart might tear itself in two, and so he’d sent his small son away, stone-faced against the tears and the tantrums that followed. Seeing him again, after the harsh words they’d exchanged, would be akin to handling a live wire.

Standing in front of the heavy door, he knocked twice sharply. Through the oak wood he could hear childish chattering, intermingled with lower, more dulcet tones, and the patter of a young boy’s feet, and he smiled as the door opened to reveal the beaming face of his son.

“Dad!” The boy exclaimed, his expression somehow brightening even more. “You’re here!”

“Of course.” _Of course, _the argument they’d had was all but forgotten. Luke didn’t hold grudges, a quality that was rather remarkable in the face of the world he’d been born into. Elliott pulled him into a half-embrace, ruffling his hair for good measure, sure that his pride had etched itself into his expression. He’d always struggled to hide it. He chuckled when the child yelped, batting his hand away. “Have you been good for your grandmother, Lukas?”

“He’s been an angel.”

Hester Dupuis was as tall and willowy as her late husband had been short. Marcelin Dupuis had also been rather portly, and when Elliott had first met the parents of his then-fiance he’d wondered what on Earth had attracted her to him, something he still felt a twinge of guilt towards, when remembered. It turned out that Marcelin had been what Hester was missing from her life, the man possessing an excellent sense of humour, and a rather optimistic outlook on the world. When he’d died of a sudden bout of influenza five years ago, the elderly woman had found both of those things stripped away quite suddenly. 

So Elliott was somewhat wary as he greeted the older woman-- after all, Nova had inherited her temper from this woman. “Hester,” he smiled, genially. “How have you been?”

“Well.” The woman’s tone was cordial, and Elliot thought it likely to be Luke clinging to his side that was sparing him her ire. “Yourself?”

Elliott shifted. “I’m well also,” he hesitated, sure she could see the lie for what it was, but knowing that answering truthfully was absolutely out of the question in his son’s presence. “Something rather significant has come up, I’m afraid.”

Hester’s assessing gaze sharpened, and her brow creased momentarily, before all traces of her disquietude were erased from her face. “Luke darling, how about giving that new book I found for you a go?” The smile she sent the child was adoring, and Elliott knew he’d done something right in sending him here. 

Luke was, in general, an obedient little boy, but he had a tendency to be obstinate at times-- though whether his particular brand of stubbornness was the result of either Elliott or Nova’s character was something they’d never been in agreement on. The general consensus was that it was  _ both _ their faults, though in times of conflict they also both enjoyed blaming the other. It showed itself in that moment, when the child stuck his lower lip out, whining, “I thought you were coming to see  _ me _ , Dad.”

“Of course I will,” he spoke in a tone that brooked no argument, but that he hoped was coming across as reassuring. There  _ had _ been a tad too much anxiety in the boy’s tone for his liking. “Do what your Grandma says, I’ll be with you in a minute or two, okay?”

The twelve-year-old, for his part, scowled. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, pulling away from Elliott and pushing past Hester. “I’ll be in my room,” his voice sounded dejected, and Elliott felt a small stab of remorse.

“Luke,” he spoke loudly. “I’ll come and talk to you as soon as we’re done, okay?” 

The child paused, turning and lifting his face to look his father in the eye, his expression uncertain. “Okay.”

“Just a few minutes.” Elliot promised again, feeling uncomfortably guilty.

The door to the spare bedroom was slammed unceremoniously, and there was a sudden, smothering silence.

“You’d best come through here.” Hester’s voice did not give away her disapproval, but her eyes betrayed her, a quiet discontent brewing within. Turning, she moved aside to allow Elliott into the narrow hallway. She bypassed the first door that Luke had disappeared through, opening the second and beckoning her company to follow. 

Her company did follow, treading the short path to the living room with practised ease. The room was small but cosy. It contained two plump sofas and a well-worn armchair which had provided its owners with several decades of comfortable use. There were two lamps, each situated in a corner, emanating a soft glow that bounced gently off the cream walls. A coffee table sat adjacent to the armchair, bearing both a telephone and a radio. A small yet crammed bookshelf reclined tiredly against the fireplace, which crackled merrily, utterly unaware of the sombre mood of the room’s two occupants.

Elliott moved towards the fire, rubbing his hands together in an effort to warm them. The desert air became rather cold as the day turned to night.

“The boy.” Hester spoke first, a near whisper, and Elliott remembered how thin the walls of this house were with an uncomfortable embarrassment-- something he’d unfortunately learned the hard way. “Has he woken?”

She could always be trusted to get to the point.

“He has,” he affirmed. “I informed the Elders, of course,” he paused, wondering whether he should part with the next piece of information-- but if he couldn’t trust Hester Dupuis, he didn’t think there was a soul on this earth worthy of the information. “He’s spoken. He’s not Amestrian, Hester. Truth be told, the language he speaks doesn’t translate to  _ any _ of the dialects from the countries on our borders-- we even checked Xingese, though I doubt he’d have managed to cross the desert in his condition. As we suspected, that was a non-starter.” He took a shaky breath, running a hand through his cropped, white hair. He could feel the older woman’s piercing stare on him as he rambled, and he swallowed heavily, realising how clearly the cracks in his already shaky facade were showing. “He’s-- he’s very scared. Understandably, of course, he cannot comprehend anything we say to him, and then there’s the nightmares-- fevered dreams actually, he’s become terribly sick. It’s why Nova couldn’t come down today, she thought you might know some remedies to help with the fever--” 

“Elliott.” Hester’s voice was sharp, and she moved towards him. “Calm down.” She barely had to look up at him as she placed a hand on his shoulder, tall as she was.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.” 

She patted his arm reassuringly. “We become fearful when our children are distressed, it’s only natural.”

“He’s not my child,” Elliott said, immediately.

Hester’s eyes narrowed, something cold returning to her narrowed gaze. “Isn’t he? Where is he going to go, Byrne, when he recovers?”

Elliott wanted to say they couldn’t keep him-- there wasn't space, there wasn’t the money. He knew what his wife would say to that though: they would make the space. He and Nova both worked, neither making a pittance. Money was not an issue.

“He became your child the moment you took him in, Nova saw to that. You’re a fool, Byrne. You fear because you  _ care  _ for the boy.”

Elliott groaned, sinking down onto one of the plush couches with a burden of a man twenty years older than he. “I’m afraid,” he admitted, knowing his audience probably could not think any lower of him anyway. “This is too much for me.”

“Is it?” Hester moved to settle herself into the armchair. “Perhaps cowardice runs in the family, Elliott. I see no good reason why you shouldn’t keep that child.”

“He probably already has a family.” Elliott murmured, too tired to be angered- too  _ weak _ . Maybe she was right. “They’re likely looking for him. I would be too, if my boy disappeared like that.”

The silence that followed was cold, and he mentally kicked himself. Of all the things he could have said just then, that had to be the least appropriate.

“Hmm.” Was all the woman said to that-- and really, it would have been better if she’d yelled at him. In a surprisingly gentle tone, she murmured, “I don’t believe any child as far from home as he is could simply be lost, Elliott.” There was anger behind her words, but for once it was quiet, and as she held his gaze regardless, Elliott accepted the truce for what it was. “That boy is going to need you, Byrne.”

There was sudden noise, reminiscent of a wounded animal, before a little voice whispered, “Dad?”

Both adults broke eye contact, turning to face the twelve-year-old standing hesitantly in the doorway.

“Lukas!” Elliott scolded-- a little too sternly, for the boy flinched-- but even the regret that followed was preferable to his son seeing him at his breaking point. “You were told to wait.”

Luke’s eyes watered a little, and Elliott winced-- he’d spoken too harshly. It seemed that all he was good for nowadays was making mistakes. It was only a matter of time before he made one with irreparable consequences-- but then again, perhaps that day had already come to pass.

“Now then.” Hester moved towards the child, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and shooting Elliott an irate glare. “Your father’s just stressed Luke darling, we had a few things to discuss. You have him all to yourself now, sweetheart.” She looked at him, her commands disguised as encouragement. “I’ll get those recipes ready for Nova.”

The ire in her gaze dared him to contradict her. He looked away-- greater men than he had quailed in the face of Hester Dupuis’ imposing glare. Instead, he focused his attention on erasing the day’s worries from his tired face, before he held out his hand to the child currently cradled in her worn hands.

“Of course,” he smiled, trying in vain to hide the exhaustion that he was sure his eyes held. “Come here, Lukas, and we’ll have a chat.”

Luke smiled hesitantly, a brightness in his eyes that warmed Elliott’s spirits, before he settled down next to his father, curling into him with a childish demeanour-- he wasn’t yet old enough to feel scorn for his parents, was young enough that he still wanted to be held, and something tugged almost painfully on the old man’s heart strings, for it was  _ this  _ that the world was threatening _ .  _ The innocence in his little boy. He’d do his damnedest to protect this singular goodness, he was sure. He would die trying, if he had to.

Perhaps there was something of himself worth surviving for after all, even if it took the form of his young child.

Hester gave him another look, the warning in her eyes clear as day as she spoke, voice severe, “I'll be back soon,” before she slipped away, leaving him in the company of the twelve-year-old by his side.

It was an odd, awkward moment, when he looked into the youthful face of his son and could not think of a single thing to say. He was not a man of many words, but of action, even at the best of times. On days like these, when all they could ever hope for were fleeting glimpses of what happiness looked like, he was entirely at a loss.

Luke made a wounded noise, and he pulled the boy into his arms, carding a hand through the fluffy, white-blond head of hair, finding some semblance of his vocabulary as he murmured. “It’s okay, son.” Guilt stabbed at the heart he was sure should have hardened by now. The trail of destruction he left in his wake was vast, and those he loved the most were by far the worst casualties. Hester Dupuis was able to see this, and that was why she hated him so much. Maybe it was twisted, but he trusted her for it. Trusted her judgement, at least. She was perhaps one of the only genuine people left in this world. She could see, clear as day, the injustices brought upon them-- maybe more clearly than anyone, and she, he knew, would do everything in her power to stop those same inequalities from befalling his children.

“Dad?”

Elliott looked at the child.

“What’s going on?” The boy’s eyes, the exact shade of his mother’s, blinked up at him expressively. The trust in them ( _ oh that trust, that trust he truly did not deserve)  _ was staggering. The worry was painful to see, but-- but Luke cared about others. He took after his mother in that regard, and as frightening as that concept was, as vulnerable as that made his little boy to exploitation and hurt, his pride for the twelve-year-old all but eclipsed that. As long as Luke remained kind, he could kid himself into believing he hadn’t completely failed as a father. 

Not for the second time, anyway.

He hesitated, mulling over the question as he mindlessly combed his fingers through his son’s pale hair. “That’s complicated, Luke.”

Luke was silent for a moment, before speaking, haltingly-- as though scared,  _ what was he scared of? _ “Mum hasn’t visited because she’s looking after that Amestrian boy, right?”

“That’s right.” Elliott frowned. Though the conversation would have reached that topic eventually, it certainly wasn’t the subject he’d wanted to start with. Still, besides his own dread, there wasn’t any reason to mince words. How forthright of the kid. “Your mother is with him now, I believe.”

Sometimes it was easy to know what Luke was thinking-- very often he wore his heart on his sleeve. 

But this was not one of those times-- the child’s expression appeared carefully blank, as though it had been crafted in such a way. It was an oddity that Elliott had only seen in his son once or twice, and on each occasion he had been left with an uneasiness that clung to him mulishly. He tried not to dwell. He had no need for more weight on his tired shoulders. He felt old down to his bones, sometimes, though he was not yet fifty. A life of regrets would do that to a man, he supposed.

When the boy finally spoke a spark of fear had returned to his eyes, and his voice was shaking. “Mummy’s safe, isn’t she Dad?”

It shouldn’t have surprised him, his boy saying  _ that,  _ in that trembling tone; the time they were living in was a dark one, and to conceive of the idea that he’d be able to shelter his child from the danger, one might have branded him a fool-- perhaps the very act itself was a lost cause, anyhow. Perhaps it was even dangerous. How could a child protect himself from an enemy he didn’t even understand?

“Daddy?” Luke’s use of the childhood moniker pulled him out of his anxious thoughts, and he looked down at the twelve year old. The boy’s face was contorted, halfway between tears and something resembling a sort of righteous anger. “Tell me my mama is  _ safe. _ ”

“She is,” the words fell from his lips before he’d even had time to consider their implications. “She is Lukas, the boy we rescued isn’t Amestrian-- he’s a foreigner, most likely from a distant land--” 

“So?” The fear in his son’s voice was palpable, sudden, so unlike the boy he thought he knew, and he hated this change with a passion. “He could still be a  _ soldier _ .” He spoke the word as if he were saying  _ enemy.  _ To him, they were synonymous.  _ Rightly so,  _ his darker thoughts murmured,  _ rightly so. _

“He can’t speak their language. He's not  _ their _ soldier,” his assurances were devoid of meaning, making claims he couldn’t know for certain. He couldn’t be sure Nova was safe, couldn’t be sure any of them were safe. The child could still potentially be a threat. Of course, this was far less likely now they knew he wasn’t Amestrian, but still, what could they do? The alternative would be leaving a feverish, terrified teenager alone in the desert, when the boy was too weak, too sick, and realistically too young to fend for himself. How to explain that to a child, whose only real concern was his mother’s safety, he didn’t know. 

He couldn’t, and so he didn’t.

“Your mother is safe enough, Luke,” he murmured. “That boy is very sick right now, I don’t think he’d have the strength to harm her if he tried.”

That got Luke’s attention and he sat up, his back ramrod straight, concern written all over his young face. “He’s sick? Is he going to be okay?” His eyes were wide, and he worried at his lower lip in anguish for the boy he’d all but declared as an enemy just moments ago. 

Elliott felt a stab of pride for his child’s compassion. He was quick to frighten, as many children were, but he had warmth in his heart. He wondered if Luke’s willingness to care for others had led to this kind of schism within the boy before-- if the fear for his mother contradicted the sudden concern he felt for the life of a stranger he’d never met. It certainly seemed that way. For Elliott to protect this boy from the darkness of the world, he’d have to destroy the child’s own innate kindness. 

He’d never allow himself to try.

“Yes, Lukas,” he replied. “The boy will be okay, we’ll make sure of it.”

Luke nodded solemnly, something momentarily hopeful adorning his cherubic face as he asked: “Can I come home? I can, right? If it's safe? ” 

Elliott felt his heart stutter in his chest.

“No.” He swallowed, inexplicable guilt rising in his throat. “The boy is ill, Lukas. We don’t want you catching it.”

“Oh.” His son fell silent.

“I’m sorry.” It was becoming hard to speak.

Luke pulled away then, standing and walking to the hearth. He kept his back to Elliott as he knelt, and his shoulders began to shake. “He’s in Ethan’s room, isn’t he?” His voice was clouded with tears, and Elliott could only imagine them silently tumbling over his cheeks.

It was an unexpected display, and one which was equally unwelcome in the older man’s eyes, but he didn’t approach, the gravity of the moment and his own cowardice holding him at bay. Instead he spoke, voice solemn as he stated, “We had nowhere else to put the boy.”

“I guess-- I guess that makes sense,” his child mumbled, sounding for all the world as if he were saying the opposite.

Elliott stood, feeling as though he couldn’t let this go any further. “Lukas--”

“Dad, when’s Ethan coming home?”

The words were like razors, and Elliott nearly choked trying to swallow. “I can’t say I know, Lukas.” Self-hatred rose within him, unwelcome and intrusive.  _ What a pitiful man I am,  _ he thought.  _ What a joke. _

“I’m going to stand with him, Dad, when I’m old enough. I’m going to fight.” The little boy clambered to his feet, turning to face his father with a steely glint in his eyes. The burgundy orbs were shining with the remnants of his tears. A shaky kind of fear punctuated every word the child spoke, and yet as Elliott looked into the tiny face of his little sun, he found that not even these things took centre stage. Instead determination burned brightly, never once diminishing. 

He was deathly afraid for the child before him, and yet so, so proud. “Lukas,” he whispered. “My boy, I--”

“I’m serious!” The twelve-year-old brokenly sobbed, and the sound pieced the older man’s heart like a knife. “I won’t let him stand on the front lines alone.”

This was-- this was wrong. All of it was wrong. That was all Elliott could think as he gathered his son in his arms. He thought of his wild-eyed firstborn, with his cutting words and burning, righteous anger, the boy who he’d sent to the battlefield and who had returned time and time again as a man.

And then he looked down at the child he held, the one who had cried when they’d found a dying wren on the path outside, who had wrapped it in a towel and fed it water from a medicine pipette, and then had sobbed some more when the bird passed the following morning.

_This cannot be allowed. This cannot happen._

He led his son to the sofa before kneeling on the oaken floor. He met Luke’s eyes, grasping his wrists gently. “Lukas,” he murmured. “Promise me something?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, as though he knew something of what his father was about to say, though he didn’t interrupt.

“Promise me,” Elliott closed his eyes briefly. “Please, son, promise that you won’t fight.”

Luke stiffened and tried to pull away, but Elliott tightened his hold. “I can’t promise that, Dad.” He scowled, anger that sounded a lot closer to hurt seeping into his voice. “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Lukas--”

“No!” Luke cried. “Dad, if the war goes on much longer I won’t have a  _ choice. _ Ethan--”

“You are not your brother.” Elliott snapped, his nerves fraying. “Besides, Ethan is a grown man--”

“But he wasn’t.” Luke breathed, looking suddenly far too old for his mere twelve years. “When he first left, he was only--”

“Enough.” The finality of his tone sent the little boy reeling, and Elliott winced. “I’m sorry, Luke.” He said softly. “I know you don’t understand. I cannot truly stop you if you wish to go to war, but--”

“You didn’t stop Ethan.” Luke whispered. “I remember. You told him you were  _ proud. _ ” There it was. The derision. “That he was fighting for Ishvala, and it’s funny, Dad, because I’ve read the scriptures. There’s nothing in there about fighting. That’s what a lot of people say, right? That we’re fighting for Ishvala?”

Elliott barely managed to grunt an affirmative as he blinked in quiet shock at his young son.

“People keep dying,” Luke’s voice wavered, on the brink of tears again, and Elliott was once again reminded of how utterly  _ wrong  _ it would be for this boy to fight. “Ethan could die, Dad. He could die ‘cause you were proud.”

“I know. I--”

“I can’t promise.” His eyes shone wetly. “Daddy, I can’t. Not when Ethan’s out there alone, and- and if he’s not anymore-” He choked on a sob. “If he’s  _ not,  _ then I  _ have  _ to fight. How can I think about running away from the people who m-murdered my--” he broke, falling against his father, clinging to the lapels of his sweat soaked shirt.

Elliott’s heart wrenched at the child’s wretched voice, and he gathered the twelve-year-old into his arms, rocking him slowly as his tiny body trembled. “Ethan’s alive, darling. He’s alive and he’ll come home. We’ll win this war. You’ll never have to fight. We’ll be together again, and--” He paused, not sure if he was comforting his son or himself. “I didn’t know.” He said, suddenly. “When I sent Ethan I didn’t-- I didn’t  _ know  _ war. I would never have told him to go if I’d known what I know now.”

“Do you think he’d have gone anyway?” the murmur was directed at his chest. “Do you, Dad?”

Elliott stayed silent.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know what Ethan would have done, couldn’t know how much he was to blame for any of this.

Over his little boy’s head, his eyes found Hester, watching through the narrow doorway.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen a gaze so full of hate before.


	5. Arc 1~ 5

The sand beyond the walls was golden, glittering under the warmth of the setting sun. The sight was radiant and he basked in it, marvelling at the beauty before him. The pink hues of the sky went for miles, far beyond anywhere Harry himself could fathom. Some of those he’d spoken to considered the sequestered village a cage, others regarded it as their sanctuary, but in that moment he had an appreciation for the magnificence of the world. It’s vastness was comforting, and he closed his eyes in a daze of tranquillity.

He was, at that moment, perched upon the fortress that guarded the cluster of stone houses within the walls. It was an old, crumbling edifice that had far outlived its use, and he knew that he’d probably tempted fate by climbing it. The brickwork had almost turned to dust beneath his feet in earnest, and had he been without his wand he’d have certainly plummeted to his death-- a few well placed _ reparo _ charms had proven their worth as he’d scaled the building. He was used to running on adrenaline day after day, to having to fight for his life, and though it would be wrong of him to say that he _ missed _ it, it was difficult to leave it behind for such domesticity and not feel like there was _ something _missing. Even the smallest risks helped quell this feeling, made his breathing easier and kept his racing mind quiet.

It had only been six months, after all. 

Six months since he’d won; since he’d been found, injured and alone in the burning sands. 

He could speak Amestrian now-- months of Nova’s patient instruction had drilled it into him. He’d never had to learn another language, save for remnants of Latin, but he knew that the speed with which he’d managed to understand this strange, otherworldly tongue had been borne out of necessity rather than skill. The fear had kept him pushing himself to work harder than he’d truthfully ever had to work at any kind of academia. A few months of this and he’d known enough to tell Nova that he’d turned eighteen around a month after they’d found him-- _ probably _ , _ probably a month. _In truth he wasn’t completely sure, for the number of days passing had become something of a blur to him.

It was at this point that the distinctions between the two worlds had truly made themselves apparent. He wasn’t of age here-- wouldn’t be until he reached twenty, a little less than two years away, and the jolting moment of realisation that he was still considered to be a child had left a sour taste in his mouth. Though he’d always looked young for his age he’d never been treated as such, and it was this discrepancy that troubled him-- he was a war veteran in the guise of a lost child, and he did not feel it suited him. It left him in a strange state of mourning, of grief, for the life he could have lived, had his parents not been brutally murdered before he’d learnt to walk. It was only now he knew what it was to have a family of his own, that he understood what had been stolen from him, all those years ago.

A mother, a father, even a little _ brother. _

He’d cried when he’d figured_ that _one out. 

Would he have had a sibling, had Lily and James Potter’s lives not been cut so tragically short?

Probably. Riddle had taken far more from him than he’d ever realised. It was this that had reignited a fire within Harry that he’d long considered obsolete-- a righteous anger that burned steadily and surely within him, obliterating the passivity he’d sustained in the face of his parents’ deaths. 

Never again. Never again would he allow anyone to take his family from him like that- no longer was he that defenceless, one-year-old _ baby _ , and no longer was he at the mercy of the cruelty that defined much of the world. He was older, he was _ stronger _ and he would _ not _ allow it.

There was still a small amount of guilt within him-- murmurs in the depths of his mind that claimed he hadn’t really _ earned _ their love or their acceptance, but he knew that thoughts like those never led to anything worth wanting, and so he never nurtured them. The truth was that he’d been unbearably, unbelievably lucky, plummeting into the lives of those people. _ Though how much was luck, Harry did not know. It hadn’t been _ his _ choice to fall where he did. _ Had Nova not spared him such compassion, he’d probably have died in the desert. His existence had terrified the others in the village, to the point where inaction had seemed to be the best course of action. As it was, he doubted they’d ever feel truly comfortable in his presence-- not until the war was over, at any rate.

That was the crux of it all. 

War.

He’d nearly laughed at the irony.

Because clearly, Death had a messed up sense of humour, and apparently the subtlety of a brick as well.

_ “You are their messiah.” _

He’d won a war just to be flung into the middle of another, with nothing but those damning words to go on. It left him frustrated, knowing so little about this land but caring so much about those inhabiting it, because he _ wouldn’t _allow his family to be stripped so violently from him again, he’d sworn to it, promised himself he’d never let it happen again-- and yet the dangers he was dealing with were those he’d only ever heard about, and never once caught sight of.

How could he save them from an enemy he didn’t even understand?

The differences between the two dimensions were vast, almost alarming. The disparity between the technological advances of each was staggering, with the world he was inhabiting proving undeveloped in comparison to the technology he was used to, with the exception of the development of functional, artificial limbs. The calendar dates provided no solace-- the year being 1908, and Harry might have considered time travel had he not realised that the technology he was encountering was in fact too _ advanced _ for the year 1908 of his world. In essence, the more he learned, the more he realised how little he really knew about this world-- about their history, their way of life, and whether the existence of magic was acknowledged as a fable or fact. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in a world other than the one he knew, but this time there was no big, friendly giant of a man to act as his guide, no teachers to explain the workings of the world to him. He was completely alone, with only his limited experiences for company.

It was infuriating.

In the absence of knowledge, he’d had no choice but to strengthen what little power he already owned. Older teenagers weren’t schooled here, another glaring incongruity, but instead learned crafts from their parents and their elders-- in the short time Harry had been there, nobody had ever offered this to him, citing recovery and assimilation as his top priorities, and of course they were perfectly right.

But in this, there were plenty of hours he was left utterly alone.

For all the practising he was doing, he wasn’t improving much. The wand was stubborn-- it hadn’t been his to begin with, and though its allegiance had changed, it was very much like its previous owner-- prideful to a fault. It was, in Harry’s opinion, sulking, and as a result, the spells he cast with it lacked both power and accuracy. With the prospect of a looming war on the horizon, the wand’s difficult behaviour grew evermore frustrating.

A strange, fragile peace had settled over the inhabitants of the village, but he wasn’t naive enough to believe it would last. There was an undercurrent of fear that ran rampant, almost unspoken except for the frantic whispers he’d overhear every so often. Mothers called their children into their homes long before dark, and fathers stood guard at the village entrance, circling the perimeter, sleeping next to their front doors, awakening to the hushes and howls of the desert night breezes.

Within those rumours, those mutterings of axiomatic fright, one word would appear, time and time again.

Alchemy.

At first he couldn’t quite grasp the concept, beyond a vague recollection that told him he _ had _ heard of it before, albeit perhaps indirectly. Then he’d remembered: Nicholas Flamel, the noted _ alchemist _ , and he’d dared to hope that perhaps there were _ some _ of his kind on this side of Death’s gate.

His hope had flared and died all at once. 

Alchemy, he’d discovered, was considered a _ science. _ Most regarded it derisively, as the study of something unholy, and so he doubted he’d been told anything worth salt in the grand scheme of things, but _ still, _ the apparent rule of equivalent exchange, the manipulation of the elements-- those were not the principles of magic. 

All he could ascertain after that was that were the people of the village ever to learn of his abilities, they would probably hate him. His power would appear very similar to alchemy, he knew, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to convince them of the difference.

Especially when he couldn’t convince himself.

The rumour that alchemists would be sent to fight them was still only that, _a_ _rumour_, but Harry could not fault the villagers for being afraid. The reports of a ‘State Alchemist’ programme seemed so oddly timed that he had difficulty believing it wasn’t involved in this mess in at least _some _capacity-- and who was he to question the workings of the minds of people who had lived within this world their entire lives? If they believed the alchemists to be a real threat, then so should he, if he wanted them safe.

If he wanted his family safe.

Half the village had lost someone to the bloodshed-- this was a place marked by death and the grief was tangible. 

“_ You are their messiah.” _

Each time he remembered that cold, icy voice, the words felt larger somehow, more tangible_ . _It seemed so long ago-- another time, another language, in the space between worlds, but Harry hadn’t forgotten. 

How could he?

The words rang clear in his mind, circling like vultures, ready to tear apart the small paradise he had finally attained. _ Messiah _ , a word most associated with _ hope _, bore for Harry a curse-- a duty to fulfil. It was a duty he had accepted once before, and with this acceptance he had inadvertently chosen pain and anguish.

And yet he knew, as he greeted the villagers each day with a nod of warm compassion, as he played with Luke and the boy’s older cousin, Freya, flourishing under the kindness of the family he thought of as his own, he would choose that path again if it kept them safe.

That was, after all, his promise to keep.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d stayed that way, clinging to the crumbling fortress, but by the time he opened his eyes again, the sun had almost completely set and stars were beginning to show in the milky sky. A bracing chill had him shivering as the dusky air swirled around him, and he begrudgingly started to pick his way carefully to the ground- he didn’t want another fever. He wasn’t sure if it was the stress of the entire ordeal, or the unfortunate reality that his immune system was having to contend with a host of entirely new pathogens, but he’d been almost constantly unwell since he’d arrived in this world. The uncomfortable feeling of fragility was relentless, and with that came no small amount of anger.

It was anger that even he had to admit was unjustified, and he sighed, starting along the road that led home. There was no place for foolish rage now, not when the world was in this state.

“Harry?”

He paused, sandal clad feet frozen on the cobbled path, before quickening his pace, recognising the youthful voice of the person calling for him. “Freya?” He spoke at his normal volume, knowing he’d be heard over the stillness of twilight. “Are you there?”

“Harry, I’ve found you!”

He braced himself as the small figure rushed forward, latching onto the front of his shirt. He brought his arms up automatically, laughing at the girl’s frantic appearance. “I’m alright, Freya.” 

She scowled, her lower lip jutting out as she glared up at him. “Aunt Nova says you’re not meant to be out this late.”

Harry kept one arm wrapped around her shoulders, nudging her in the direction of the village. “Nova worries too much,” he said, pulling her tighter as she started to shiver. “And so do you.”

Freya was a slight child, barely fourteen and in that awkward stage of puberty that left her somewhere between a pretty little girl and a young woman, with eyes too big for her face, gangly, lengthening limbs and an unhealthy preoccupation with her developing body. She had, in a fit of adolescent fervour and to her mother’s dismay, cut her white hair into choppy waves that curled around her ears and ended just above her jawbone, proclaiming that if men could wear it in such a way, there was no reason for her not to do so.

“We have reason to,” she pointed out, poking him in the ribs. “You’re too skinny and you get sick _ all _ the time, and you’re always letting Luke pressure you into doing _ stupid _stuff,” she sniffed in exasperation. “I swear you two get in so much trouble.”

That was-- well that was actually true. He wasn’t sure what it was about Luke, but whenever they were together it _ did _seem as though they were always in trouble, though it wasn’t like they ever meant to do anything wrong. Honestly, getting in trouble for harmless pranks was almost relieving after being number one on a government’s most wanted list.

“You’re there half the time too, Freya,” Harry reminded her, smirking as she glanced up at him with another glare, “and it’s fun, isn’t it?”

It _ was _ fun, that was the problem-- for all that he griped about being seen as a child, he hadn’t exactly been helping his case. He had, in fact, taken advantage of it in what was probably the least mature way possible-- still, every time he and Luke were scolded for yet another one of their ( _ minor, _ they were _ minor) _escapades, he’d catch a glint of amusement in Nova’s eyes, and that, in his opinion made it worth the chores.

Freya sighed, puffing out her cheeks as she leaned closer to him and replied, “Yes, I suppose it is,” she saw that glint too, then. “You’re thinking too hard, Harry. It’s hurting even _ my _ head.”

Harry felt a grin stretch across his face. “That was the plan.”

The girl snorted, her laughter contagious even as she stared at him incredulously, and after a moment he joined in, shoulders shaking as he grappled for a semblance of sobriety. 

This was what he would fight for, when the time came. These were the people he would give his life to, even if he had to take on an entire _ army _of those State Alchemist soldiers-- he would do that, he knew, and in that moment, holding onto the girl who had just as quickly become his family as any of the rest of them, he felt tender hope blossoming in his chest. 

He glanced down at her, smiling when he caught her concerned gaze. “See?” He cajoled, gently. “I’m perfectly fine. No need to worry about me.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m not sick either, Freya. I’ll be okay.”

“Uh huh,” she frowned suspiciously at him. “Whatever you say, Harry.”

“It’s the truth!” He scowled, though the amusement dancing in his green eyes belied the mock-offence. “You don’t take me for a liar, do you?”

She was laughing again. “Well, I don’t know,” she answered, her smile blinding. “Have you ever lied to me before?”

“Never!” He proclaimed, striking his chest with his fist. “I swear on Ishvala, I’d never do such a terrible thing!”

“I guess I’ll believe you then, but be warned,” she sniffed, affecting an air of apathy. “Break that vow and you shall feel my wrath!” She grinned up at him, laughter in her eyes. “How does that make you feel, Harry?”

“I guess I can’t lie to you now,” he sighed, gently squeezing her shoulder. “In truth? Trapped.”

“Oh, come off it,” she giggled, shoving him slightly, before glancing up at the dusky sky. “We really should be getting back. I was sent to find you for supper.”

He frowned. “We’re having it at yours?” Nova hadn’t mentioned that.

“No,” she hesitated, something unidentifiable in her expression. “I’m at yours tonight, Daddy is too,” her lips trembled slightly. “Mama’s not feeling well, the doctor wants her to rest,” she gave a half-sob, a sudden, pitiful sound, so distant from the way she’d sounded just a moment ago that the sudden volte face sent Harry reeling before he managed to process the words she’d just uttered.

Oh.

Oh no.

He stopped in the middle of the street, pulling into his arms as she started to shake. “Shh,” he soothed as he led her shivering form to the side of the road, sitting them both down on a half-wall that separated the pavement from the modest garden it enclosed. “Come on, now,” he murmured, as her choking wails failed to cease. “It’s okay, Freya, no need for all the tears.” He looked down at her with what he hoped was a reassuring expression, trying to hide how far out of his depth he truly felt. 

“I don’t know what to do,” the little girl whispered, wiping her eyes almost furiously, desperately trying to contain her gasping sobs. “I’m so sorry, Harry, I don’t mean to cry.”

“No, no.” Damn it. He _ was _out of his depth.

Sigrid’s mental state had been rapidly declining for a long time, but recently it was worse. Much, much worse-- terrifyingly so, in fact, even for him. Freya was watching her mother deteriorate before her eyes. Adding that to the fact that Freya was probably right in the middle of puberty’s iron grip, and, well, Harry remembered being fourteen. “No,” he protested, not really knowing what to say. “I didn’t mean- I mean, I didn’t- it’s okay to cry?” he concluded, weakly, wincing as the girl beside him blinked as though she couldn’t quite believe his ineptitude.

She was sniggering through her tears, though-- and he could at least count that as a victory, couldn’t he? “You’re really bad at this, you know that?” she sniffed a laugh. “I probably seem crazy to you.”

“You’re not crazy, kid,” Harry grinned shakily. He’d seen dangerous insanity before, (during _ his _ war,) witnessed the more subtle variety in the little girl’s mother, blatantly unstable but mostly harmless. Freya was untouched, for the most part, but the pain that Sigrid Byrne’s eyes held sometimes seemed to have settled deep inside her daughter, and for that he felt both desperately sorry and furiously angry. Not at anyone in particular. Sometimes the world could be so heartless in a way that he thought might break him if it pushed hard enough. He supposed it hadn’t cared enough to try that, _ yet. _

_ Give it time, _ he thought grimly. _ Give it time. _

The girl in question let out a choked sob beside him, and Harry pulled her into a hug, “It’ll be okay, Freya,” he said, quietly. “I promise.” 

“How do you know?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “How can you know?”

“Because things always work out,” Harry let words tumble from his mouth, perhaps believing half of them. “This will-- even if it’s difficult right now, everything will be okay eventually.” 

He had no right to tell her this (s_ ometimes things do not turn out okay. Sometimes people are lost before they get to see a happy ending, and sometimes there is no happy ending at all) _ but looking down at the girl in his arms, her tear-stained, desperate eyes searching for any kind of reassurance, he broke his vow.

“Everything will be okay, Freya.”

She gave a teary-eyed nod, a sort of relief dawning in her expression. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she muttered, swiping her eyes angrily. “I’m sorry for crying all over you.”

“It’s okay,” he repeated. He couldn’t meet her gaze. “It’s all okay,” pausing, he forced a grin, despite the wretched atmosphere. “What’d you say about supper, huh? I’m starving.”

The fourteen year old smiled back at him, and pulled away, “How about I race you?” she challenged, a mischievous glint in her eyes hiding the last hint of vulnerability. “Winner gets half the loser’s dessert.”

“You’re on.” Harry smirked. “But don’t complain when I win this one.”

If he purposefully stayed a few paces behind her, neither of them spoke of it-- even when he grudgingly handed her half of his precious meringue.


	6. Arc 1~ 6

It was in solemnity that Harry found himself seated around a table of seven that evening. He had Freya on his left, clutching his hand in earnest, and Luke directly opposite him, scowling into the mound of peas and roasted potatoes his mother was insisting he finish or he  _ would not _ receive dessert. Jacob Byrne, Elliott’s older brother, had been placed in between Freya, and Elliott himself. Nova was sitting on Harry’s other side, and beside her, at the head of the table, was Nova’s own mother, a fierce, dignified woman who insisted on treating Harry as though he were her own grandson. 

It was an event ordinarily wrought with arguments and petty squabbling, but even the usual bickering had subsided to a quiet tension that drew on the morale of those present. Conversation had become awkward and stilted, and there was a sense of loss in the atmosphere that was hard to compensate for.

It was painfully clear that Sigrid’s absence had been keenly felt.

“Now of course,” Hester Dupuis was saying firmly, not caring an inkling for the sobriety that hung, cool and imposing in the stale air. “The situation is bleaker than we realised. Ishvala knows what anyone hopes to gain from this pointless war,” she sniffed, disdain evident on her sharp features. “If we had been just a little less prideful,” she paused, helping herself to a serving of fresh gooseberries before coating them with a sticky syrup in an excess that Harry felt himself internally shudder at. “Perhaps we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Don’t, Mother,” Nova murmured, when it seemed as though nobody else was going to speak. “What’s done is done,” her brow creased in unhappiness. She was clearly sensing the same tense atmosphere, and looked to be all the more uncomfortable for it.

“A war over a single child,” Hester continued, as though her daughter hadn’t spoken. “It’s not worth it, I tell you. Look at where we are now, afraid of an attack at any moment. How many men have died in the name of that child?” she shook her head, and for a moment Harry thought he could see genuine distress in her eyes, but any emotion she’d unwittingly shown was gone a moment later, and she became her old, blustering self. “What have we come to?” she sniffed, disapproval covering her wrinkled face like an ink stain, a permanent frown lancing the corners of her mouth.

Harry had heard the stories, he knew what had started the war. _ Lesser men have begun wars over lesser things than a life cut short.  _ He’d known a few.

“That child deserves justice.” 

He glanced at Elliott, who had spoken. The man must have been feeling brave. Hester, when in the mood she currently occupied, was the equivalent to a gale-force wind, and Elliott, while a sturdy, loving father and husband, didn’t have a chance when it came to facing down his mother-in-law.

The old woman’s eyes became a steel trap, and Harry found he couldn’t look away, even as the glare was directed at another, unfortunate soul. “Revenge is not justice, Elliott,” was all she said. To an outsider she might have seemed almost placid, perhaps a little perturbed, but those who knew her would quake beneath her wrathful gaze.

“Neither is complicity,” the older man shot back, rather admirably it seemed, though still, of course, without the addition of anything as fanciful as hope, given the current predicament he was in. “Had we not revolted, we’d still be under military occupation.”

“You talk as if you had any part of it,” Hester’s voice grew frigid. “Though I suppose you did, didn’t you Elliott? Sending those boys to the front line like that.”

There it was. The defeat. Harry’s heart twinged in pity for the older man, whose face had turned pale and waxy, but it was overshadowed by the awe he felt as he blinked up at the stony expression of the family’s matriarch. When she caught him looking, the coldness slipped from her face, warmth flooding her eyes, before she turned back to her son-in-law, grim countenance sliding back into place.

“They were children, Elliott,” she glowered. “Those poor boys, wasn’t Ethan turning the age of Harry here when he--”

“Mother!” Nova snapped, just as her husband looked as though he were about to throw up. The sudden edge to her usually calm voice was jarring, and Harry had to force himself not to flinch, greatly disliking the fact that he’d been brought into this at all. “Let’s talk about something else, hm? Now, Harry,” she stood, the pie dish clutched in her small hands as though it were a weapon, holding it in front of his face with a terrifying intensity. “Would you like another slice of pavlova, dear?”

“I-- um, yes, yes please,” he stuttered, feeling very much as though that was the only acceptable answer. He gingerly cut himself the smallest piece he could without appearing rude, his full stomach protesting in earnest. He was almost certain Nova knew he was struggling with the quantity of food, and yet she kept on bestowing him with far more than he was able to eat. She seemed to always be complaining about how unduly thin he was, and he had to wonder if she was purposely overfeeding him in an effort to right the perceived wrong. The gesture gave rise to an unexpected feeling of warmth within him, and he couldn’t help but smile at the woman. “Thank you,” he spoke candidly, eyes bright as he smiled at the motherly figure. “It’s really good, Nova.”

It was as though a spell had been broken, and the tension that had been brewing since the moment everyone had sat down to eat vanished, leaving only quiet conciliation.

“You’re very welcome,” Nova patted his hand gently. “Now, would anyone else like some more?  _ Not you,  _ Lukas, I want you to finish what’s on your plate first. I’ll make sure there’s some left for when you’ve finished, darling.” She started dishing out second helpings, serving a mammoth portion to Freya, who had already consumed a slice and half. The little girl was beaming as she tucked into her freshly acquired prize, and Harry had to hold in a laugh of fond amusement. If he hadn’t witnessed her heartbreaking sobs earlier that evening, he’d never have known that she’d been crying at all.

“Brother,” Jacob, who had been silent up until this point-- a wise decision that Harry had, for the most part, also chosen to partake in-- rose to his feet. “How about a spot of cognac? I think we could all do with a glass of drink after that.” He moved to pat his younger brother on the back in a gesture of well-meaning comfort. “Come now, it’ll do you some good.”

Elliott, to Harry’s surprise and Nova’s clear consternation, agreed at once to the proposition, rising to his feet and leaving the room hurriedly. The man had originally appeared recovered after Hester’s verbal assault, but his response to his brother’s assertion suggested otherwise, and Harry wondered whether that had been the reason for the older man’s request-- because for all that Freya’s father seemed jovial, his eyes had never once left his younger sibling.

“Harry?” Elliott returned to the table, a stack of tumblers balanced precariously in his weathered hands. “You wouldn’t care for a touch of brandy would you, lad?” He set the crystal down on the table, and Harry realised there were five glasses in total-- one for each of the adults, and one for him.

He looked to Nova, who he was sure would be set against it but instead she smiled at him, warmth brightening her expression. “Go on, dear,” she said, her tone a mixture of exasperation and a grudging fondness. “We allowed Ethan to drink on his eighteenth birthday, and we didn’t find out you were old enough until after you’d had yours,” her eyes softened, a small amount of sadness mixing in with the cocktail of emotions swirling in the burgundy orbs.

Of course, Harry had hardly been able to speak a word of Amestrian on that day. In all honesty, he’d actually forgotten about his birthday until much later, preoccupied as he had been with trying desperately to cope in the wake of his dalliance with Death. 

“Go ahead and have a glass,” Nova concluded, putting her arm around his shoulder and squeezing gently. “Mind you,” she glanced up at her husband, expression suddenly stern. “I’d rather it were only a small amount. Elliott, if you would?” 

Elliott nodded, his deep voice warm as he stated firmly, “I’m not about to get an eighteen-year-old drunk.” He filled the tumbler a quarter of the way, before setting it down in front of Harry. “It’s strong,” he warned, as the boy brought the glass to his lips. “Take a sip first, see how you feel about it before you commit to it, kiddo.” He started to fill the rest of the glasses, handing them to Hester, Jacob and even Nova, whose opinion on liquor remained unclear to the teenager, before pouring his own.

Harry did as he was told, wincing as the burning liquid scorched his throat. His face contorted reflexively at first, but as the sensation dulled to a rather pleasant warmth, all that remained of the experience was a rosy flush that stained his cheeks a rather spectacular shade of red. 

He glanced around the table to find all the adults staring at him in amusement, each holding their own glass filled to the halfway mark with the amber liquid. 

“Did you like it?” Hester sounded as though she was trying awfully hard not to cackle, any previous enmity all but forgotten in lieu of her delight at the situation. “It goes down rather roughly the first time, doesn’t it, boy?”

It had done and Harry could still feel the tingle, but it hadn’t been unpleasant. Not overly so, anyway; not like the pain he’d felt after drinking fire-whisky, something he had, after  _ that  _ particular debacle, vowed never to do again. Oh, the cognac had  _ burned, _ but the golden, biting liquid had settled warmly in his stomach, the heat spreading through his limbs and lifting his mood as though his insides were giving him a comforting embrace. He stared at the glass in his hand feeling oddly as though he wanted more. “I like it,” he finally declared, turning to grin at Elliott as those surrounding the table waited for his answer with bated breath. “Can I have as much as you?”

Elliott, for his part, blinked twice at the eighteen-year-old before laughing uproariously, slapping the table with his hand in earnest. “Let’s see how you do with that for now,” he managed to gasp between guffaws, motioning towards the drink Harry still held in his hands.“‘Can I have as much as you?’ he says! My goodness!” 

The hilarity of the situation did not seem lost on the others seated at the table either-- the exception, of course, being Freya and Luke, who looked just as dumbfounded as Harry felt. Jacob was the picture of mirth, shoulders shaking silently in an attempt to regain his lost semblance of comportment. Hester really  _ was _ cackling this time, her red eyes alight with glee, and even Nova was chuckling to herself as she pulled Harry towards her, popping a quick kiss on the crown of his head.

“I want to try some!” Luke announced, turning his pleading gaze towards his father before his mother even had time to shake her head. “Please Daddy, just a sip?” His eyes were wide and bright and he’d even stuck his lower lip in an effort to get what he wanted-- something Harry had to laugh at even as the majority of the room reached sobriety.

“I don’t know,” Elliott hesitated as he glanced at his wife, before deferring to her judgement. “Why don’t you ask your mother?”

By then, Nova’s cheeks had been ordained by a merry flush that was strikingly similar to Harry’s own in all but intensity, and she smiled as she stood and pulled two much smaller glass cups from the cupboard, pouring no more than a couple of thimbles worth of the brandy into each one. Handing one each to Freya and Luke, she turned towards Harry, winking discreetly before facing the two children, a smirk akin to the cat that got the cream adorning her serene face. “If you like it, you can have more,” she promised them, an uncharacteristically mischievous glint in her eyes. 

“Really?” Luke looked up excitedly at that, though not without a hint of suspicion as blinked, confused, at his unusually nonchalant mother. “You really mean it?”

“I really do,” she promised, her face a picture of solemn integrity.

The little boy’s eyes lit up and he grabbed the tumbler without hesitation, lifting it to his lips and draining it in one fell swoop. Harry could only watch in mild consternation as the child’s face contorted in anguish and pain, and he offered the twelve-year-old his own glass of water as a sense of pity came over him.

The child in question stared, aghast, at the adults in the room, who were noticeably in varying stages of hilarity. “How can you _drink_ _that?” _He choked out, disgust evident in his young voice. “That was _disgusting. _How can you _enjoy_ that?” shuddering, he reached for the water Harry had offered him, relief evident on his face as he chugged the sweet liquid. “Ugh,” he scowled, frowning as he wiped his hand across his mouth. “_Gross.”_

Freya was giggling, her own brandy precariously balanced on the opposite edge of the table, and Harry wondered when she’d discarded it. Luke rounded on her as she laughed, glaring as ferociously as his injured pride would let him.

“Have yours!” the child reached for the glass, meaning to push it back towards his cousin.

Freya quickly snatched the offending object, setting it down but otherwise making no move to drink the golden spirit. “I really don’t think I want to,” she smirked, amusement dancing in her crimson eyes. “It didn’t look like it tasted all that good.”

“Come on Freya, it's not fair that only I had to!” Luke looked like he was getting upset, bearing an expression that could only be described as wounded. “Mum, it's still burning!” He blinked up at his mother with eyes that seemed almost a little teary.

Nova’s smile seemed a little guilt-ridden then, but the sparkle of mirth remained in her eyes, “I’m sorry darling.” She moved over to her youngest son, leaning down to pull him into a hug. “Do you want any more, Lukas? I did promise, after all.”

“Never,” the boy’s expression was downright murderous. “Never, never. I never, ever,  _ ever _ want to drink that  _ ever _ again.”

“I see,” his mother’s expression morphed to one of austerity, though Harry thought he could see the corners of her mouth twitching. “Well in that case, I suppose it's a good thing you’re not old enough to drink then, isn’t it darling?”

“I’ll  _ never  _ be old enough for that,” Luke muttered, fervently. “Ugh,” he shuddered again, looking mildly nauseous.

Nova patted him on the head. “Good boy,” she praised, before she stood, gathering the used glasses from the table and placing them in the sink. “Let’s head into the living room, yes? Elliott darling, do you mind getting a fire going? I’ll wash these up.”

Elliott, who, along with Jacob, had kept a tight hold on his tumbler, ruffled his son’s fluffy white-blond hair as he rose to his feet. “Of course, love.” He casually took a hold of the brandy bottle that remained, innocently, in the centre of the table, making his way to the door. “Jacob?”

The older man stood too, groaning slightly from the effort. Despite looking to be only a few years senior, he moved far more slowly than his brother, in a way that suggested he was older than he first appeared. “I’ll be with you shortly,” he told the younger of the two men, before he glanced around the table, his eyes landing on the eighteen-year-old, who had been watching the entire exchange with a mixture of bemusement and second-hand embarrassment. “Harry?”

“Um, yes?” Harry blinked blankly at Jacob, unused to being addressed by him. “Sir?”

“Oh, no need for that,” the man waved away the title. “Please, it’s just Jacob. Or Uncle, if you prefer,” he winked at him. “We’re family now,” he leaned over, grasping the teenager’s shoulder with gnarled fingers. “Could I borrow you for a minute, Harry?”

Harry could smell the alcohol on the older man’s moist breath, heavy and gross with every exhale, and he fought to keep the disgust from his face as he leaned away, answering “of course,” even as every fibre of his being was begging him to decline. He didn’t miss the perturbed look on Nova’s heart-shaped face, or how Elliott had visibly stiffened, having stilled halfway through the narrow doorway. 

“I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, Byrne.” Hester was suddenly next to them, her imposing figure bringing a shadow of solace to Harry’s countenance. “I can smell the brandy from here,” she frowned, “Harry, dear, there’s nothing Jacob has to say to you that can’t wait until morning--”

“No, it's okay,” he almost couldn’t believe he was discarding the life-jacket she had thrown him, but he couldn’t help but feel as though she was overreacting-- couldn’t help but feel as though  _ he  _ was overreacting. Jacob had always been distant, never really speaking to him directly, and Harry had never been able to figure out whether that had been out of fear or was simply because of the fact that he was a relative unknown, and moreover one that the man had no interest in. Now, however, it seemed as though the inhibitions Jacob usually possessed were the furthest thing from his mind, and that intrigued the teenager. So, despite the odd trepidation he was feeling in the pit of the stomach, he defended the older man. “I don’t mind listening to what he has to say.”

“Ah, there, you see?” Jacob smiled jovially at him. “Just a chat, man to man. The rest of you go on ahead.” He waved his hand dismissively, as if they were in his own house. “We’ll be there in a jiffy, don’t you worry.” 

Nova frowned, “Harry, darling, are you sure--”

“I’m sure,” he said quickly. “It’s okay, Nova.” In truth, their reactions had worried him somewhat-- but he wasn’t scared of the muggle beside him, and he was sure, had they known what he was capable of, they would have been more frightened for Jacob than himself.

“Well, then,” Nova took Luke’s hand, beckoning Freya to follow her as she made her way towards the door. “I suppose you’d better get that fire started, Elliott. The night’s still young; there’ll be a chill in the air soon,” she sighed, looking back at the kitchen sink mournfully. “I suppose I’ll have to do that later, then.”

“I’ll do it,” Harry volunteered, feeling a little guilty. “I don’t mind washing them up.” He got to his feet, pulling away from Jacob’s grasp as he made his way to the pile of dishes. “I can multitask well enough.”

He could’ve sworn he saw pride in the woman’s expression just then, as she spoke, softer than before. “You’re a good boy, Harry,” shaking her head, she smiled at him. “We’ll be in the other room. Shout if you need anything, alright?”

What did they think the man was going to do to him?

“Of course,” Harry nodded rapidly. “I’ll call for you if I need to.”

“Good,” her smile grew wider. “We’ll leave you to it then. Come, Mother,” she spoke to Hester, for the older woman appeared to have no intention of going anywhere. “Let’s settle in the parlour.”

Harry watched them leave, apprehension mounting as he was left alone with the inebriated, old man, before he moved towards the sink, turning the water on and observing as it swirled, running swiftly around the basin before finding its way into the plug hole. “What did you want to talk to me about?” he kept his voice light, hoping the nervousness he was feeling remained undetectable in his tone. “You seemed awfully insistent.”

The other man didn’t say anything at first, and the silence left Harry wondering if perhaps he hadn’t heard him, but just as he turned, facing the man, to repeat himself, the Ishavlan spoke. “So, I heard you’ve been spending a lot of time with my daughter.”

Harry nearly dropped the plate he was rinsing, caught by surprise as much as he was. That… that hadn’t been remotely similar to anything he’d expected from this conversation. It was a little disconcerting, if not relieving-- whatever Jacob’s motivations were, if Freya was involved, he doubted they were sinister. “She’s my friend,” he said carefully, drying the same plate before reaching for another. He wasn’t sure what the man was leading to, but something about the way the man had spoken troubled him. “So I like spending time with her.”

“I see.” Jacob was frowning, concern evident in his murky eyes. “Harry, I’m going to be blunt here. I understand my daughter is a very beautiful girl, but she’s only just turned fourteen, and I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while if you want any kind of relationship with her--”

Harry choked on his saliva.  _ “What?” _

That, apparently, had been the wrong response.

“Now look,” Jacob’s face was suddenly irate, half-drunken anger showing itself as he strode towards the bewildered teenager. “I’m trying to be very understanding here boy. Why, I met my Sigrid when I was around your age! But Freya is far too young to understand the nuances of romance, and I can’t have you tarnishing her innocence in such a way--”

“Sir!” Harry interrupted again, effectively halting the older man’s rant. “I’m sorry, Sir, but I really think you’ve gotten the wrong impression,” he had no idea what he was saying, his thoughts were spinning so bloody much, panic rendering him confused. “I.. ah, that is to say, Freya _is_ far too young for me. I think of her as a sister.” he attempted to clarify. “I swear, I would never try to, um, _tarnish her innocence, _as you said. I promise,” he was rambling now, saying just about anything to get the older man to _back off. _He shuddered in revulsion, finding the notion as sickening as the man’s sweet, alcohol induced wheezes. “Freya’s a _child_, Sir, I could _never.”_

Jacob was visibly calming as Harry spoke, though there remained an odd suspicion in the man’s dark eyes. “That’s good to hear,” he murmured, sighing as he shook his head. “I suppose you’re both just children, I don’t know what I was thinking,” he pulled away from the teenager, sitting heavily in the chair that Harry himself had previously vacated.

“You’re right to worry,” Harry remembered his years at school, of poor Katy Bell, and of his own damning actions when he sliced open Draco Malfoy’s chest. “Children are capable of terrible things.”

“Is that so?” Jacob leaned back in his chair, laughing humorlessly. “You know, child, that’s exactly what I told Elliott when he took you in.”

  
Harry flinched. He understood why so many had been so afraid of him at first, but that didn’t mean that the whispers and the staring hadn’t hurt. Truthfully, it had troubled him more than he was willing to confess even to himself, and to hear someone speak so casually of those painful months, to  _ admit _ to feeling such a way, was both refreshing and unpleasant all at once. The bluntness with which the man spoke could almost be considered callousness, and Harry would have felt that way, had he not remembered just how imbibed Jacob was with brandy. The bottle had been considerably emptier that it had first appeared, and the boy now wondered exactly how much had been drunk by this man alone.

“I didn’t know that,” was all he said, his voice hollow.

“Of course you didn’t,” there was a small amount of remorse in the older man’s tone-- perhaps too little, considering the words he’d just uttered. “Elliott wouldn’t have been so cruel as to burden you with that knowledge.

_ And yet you were,  _ the thought arose, unbidden, but Harry didn’t voice it. Instead, he addressed the mistrust that played, plain as day, across the Ishvalan’s countenance, hoping, perhaps naively, that he might end the conversation then and there. “You don’t need to worry about Freya. I already have a girlfriend, Sir.”

Something akin to relief seemed to flourish in Jacob’s eyes. “Oh. Oh, that’s good news,” he paused, before the same joviality he’d shown before reared its head, and he asked, lightly. “One of the village girls, I take it?”

Harry hesitated, knowing very well that he couldn’t lie, for he’d be caught out immediately in a village so small as this one. He almost laughed as he remembered the old adage,  _ I must not tell lies, _ and he subconsciously thumbed the lines on the back of his hand that marked the words that had once been carved into his flesh. The scars were faded now, the language useless and obsolete. Their meaning had been lost the moment he’d fallen into this foreign world, and for that he was grateful.

“No,” he answered. “Not one of the village girls, Sir.” He spoke then as if it could have been any girl, as if Ginny didn’t mean anything to him-- but he thought of her every day, and every day his heart shattered a little more. He supposed there might come a time when he would look back and remember her soft, red hair and blazing courage with nothing more than a warm fondness, he was sure of it in fact, but in that moment, so recently was the wound inflicted, any amount of digging into his ruptured past caused him agony.

Somewhere beneath the drunken stupor, he could see something sharpen in the older man’s fervent gaze. “So you do remember what happened to you,” he murmured. “We  _ had _ wondered if the trauma you’d experienced had caused a memory block. That was what Nova thought, anyway,” he scoffed. “I always knew you were lying.”

Harry looked down, remembering he was supposed to be washing up, and he started methodically scrubbing the plates and cutlery, before rising them and drying them with the worn tea towel. “I never said I didn’t remember,” was all he stated.

“So tell us then.” Jacob seemed suddenly, indubitably insistent, his words increasing exponentially in volume. “Tell us where you’re from, child. We could help you get back there. Or do you not want to?” He clambered to his feet again, leaning close enough to let Harry know that the man still reeked of alcohol. “What happened, Harry? What  _ happened to you?” _

“Jacob!”

Harry was shaking, trembling with something that wasn’t quite fear as he turned to face the sudden intruder. Elliott stood in the doorway, his expression somewhere between concern and anger. There was a silence that nobody dared broach, before Harry turned to look the older of the two brothers dead in the eye. 

“I can never go back,” he said quietly. “That gate is closed, Jacob. I can never, ever go back home.”

The older man looked shaken, though whether it was Elliott’s presence, or Harry’s own words that had shocked him, the eighteen-year-old wasn’t sure. “But...” the man trailed off. “But why can’t you--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the teenager shuddered, his head spinning, and he collapsed against the counter.  _ “Please,  _ I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think that’s enough now.” Elliott moved forward, firmly planting himself between his older brother and the shivering child. “Jacob, stay here and get a grip-- and possibly a glass of water,” he shook his head, disappointment and shame stark in his crimson eyes. “The cognac was a mistake; you took it too far again, Brother.”

Too far  _ again? _

Had that been why they were hesitant to leave him?

“Harry?” Elliott’s gentle tone dragged him from his swirling thoughts. “Come through to the living room with me, okay? We’ll leave this fool alone for now.”

He allowed himself to be pulled away, quiet shock leaving him malleable, until he was taken gently to the parlour and told to sit down next to Nova. The woman didn’t ask questions, though he could see her confusion, plain across her faintly lined face, but instead pulled him into her arms, gently stroking the back of his head as he crumbled into her embrace. For a moment everyone in the room fell silent, but Elliott must have made some kind of gesture because conversation broke out again after just a few minutes, and he was left in peace.

Jacob returned perhaps an hour later, contrite and steadier on his feat, and though he didn’t apologise, the look he sent Harry was nothing short of regretful. He didn’t speak much, but sat silently beside his daughter, holding her to his side as though she were his only anchor into the real world. Staring at the man’s distraught face, Harry wondered if perhaps this was true. With a wife whose mind was as fractured as Sigrid’s, and her brother fighting so far away, Freya was the only other pillar of sanity in their family. His daughter was a fourteen-year-old girl, though, and it hadn’t been long since she herself was a small child. Had Jacob been completely alone, in those years before she grew up enough to act as a sounding board for the older man's fears? It would be enough to drive anyone around the bend. Did Freya have a single sane parent between her delusional mother and her father, whose thoughts were so steeped in paranoia that he viewed anything and everything as a potential threat? 

It was a revelation that gave him no joy, and as his own gaze caught the scarlet eyes of the young girl, he wondered how much she’d been broken by it all. She was, overwhelmingly, the epitome of tragedy.

It was later still, perhaps nearing ten o’clock, when Luke, as restless as little boys can become, begged his parents to allow him to play outside. He’d been silent much of the evening, taking in the emotional mess before him with wide, astute eyes. He sweet-talked his mother into allowing him to leave the house so late-- with Harry and Freya supervising,  _ of course,  _ taking advantage of her imbibed state with an artifice that was so savagely conniving that it was actually rather impressive. The twelve-year-old’s face was a picture of angelic innocence, but as he turned to Harry, all the older boy could see was a manipulative little monster, and he had no illusions as to whom the child had inherited  _ that _ particular trait. He could still see the victorious smirk Nova had worn when she’d successfully finagled her youngest son into denouncing alcohol  _ forever. _

“Come on,” Luke had said, tugging on Harry’s hand after his mother had given them the appropriate lecture on safety and the importance of keeping a close eye on one another. “Come and play, Harry! I promise we won’t go far, Mummy.”

Harry could see Freya trying not to laugh as she pulled away from her father to join them. “We’ll keep each other safe, Auntie,” she spoke, her voice calmly reassuring. “I won’t let the boys do anything stupid, don’t worry.”

When Nova actually looked relieved at this, Harry felt his mouth fall open. “No!” he started to protest, but stopped short when he noticed the woman raise a single eyebrow. “Er, I mean…”

“Harry, darling,” Nova’s expression was nothing less than stern. “Who poured blue ink into the Hodgens’ flower beds just last week?” 

“Um, well it  _ was  _ Luke and I, but-”

“Their marigolds turned green.” 

“Well,  _ yes,  _ but-”

“Catherine was  _ furious.” _

“But she told Harry he had no right to be here because he wasn’t born Ishvalan, Mum!” Luke interjected, suddenly, righteous anger burning in his young eyes. “What were we  _ supposed _ to do? It's not like we killed the flowers, anyway. They’ve grown even more since, her garden is  _ covered _ in them.”

So maybe Harry had used a  _ tiny _ bit of spell-work to achieve that particular result. It had been a challenge, trying to hide his wand from Luke, but the out of control weeds that adorned the front porch of the ornery old woman’s sandstone house had been worth the struggle. There might have been a time when he’d have believed her noxious words, but standing next to Luke and Freya, who had, upon hearing her snide remarks, been thoroughly outraged on his behalf, yelling all the obscenities their young minds could come up with on the spot, he felt as though the very notion that he didn’t belong was laughable. He went along with the pranks Luke came up with, even as a sliver of guilt pierced his conscience, vetoing the more vengeful ideas the little boy’s viciousness had to offer.

“To be fair, love, that woman  _ is  _ a nasty piece of work,” Elliott looked as though he was desperately trying not to laugh, and failing miserably. “Mean Old Kate is what we called her, when we were young. She was just as awful then as she is now. Always seemed as old as she is now, too, or at least she did at the time, to us youngsters.”

“Elliott.”

“Ah yes,” the man shifted uncomfortably under the force of his wife’s glare. “Don’t do that again, kids. You’ll give the old crone a heart attack.”

“Elliott, _ honestly.  _ These children look up to you.” Nova shook her head disparagingly. “Boys, you  _ mustn’t  _ do something like that again. Two wrongs don’t make a right. Remember that, darlings,” she reached out, cupping Luke’s cheek in her palm. “Be safe out there alright? And I want you back home within the hour, understand? Stay close enough that I’ll be able to call you home. Stay together.” 

“We will,” Harry promised, feeling a little guilty at the anxious look in the woman’s eyes. “I’ll look after them Nova, I promise,” he looped his arm around the two children he considered family, remembering the oath he’d made himself just earlier that day. “I’ll never let anything happen to them, Nova. I’ll keep them safe,” he wouldn’t lose anyone else, not again.

Never again.

As their gazes met, something akin to understanding passed over the mother’s expression, and she stared at Harry in a way he was sure she never had before. “I see it now,” she murmured, as if there was nobody in the room but the two of them- and then she stood up reaching towards him and pulling him into her arms. “I know a soldier’s eyes, Harry,” she whispered, her voice so quiet only he could hear her words.

Her son was fighting in the civil war, of course she knew.

He stepped back, a sudden pulse of anxiety rising within him, and he desperately beat it down, shaking his head minutely as he caught hold of Luke and Freya’s hands. “We should go,” his voice was shaking, and bit down on his lip until blood was drawn. “Come on,” he exhaled softly as his tone steadied, and he managed a tremulous smile. “We’re wasting time, we have to be back in an hour, remember?”

Just when he thought he’d left the past behind, it came banging on his door again. He couldn’t escape, and he realised, staring into the red orbs of the woman who was like a mother to him, he’d probably never manage.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.


	7. Arc 1~ 7

They left, stepping into the cool night air wrapped in cloaks, for the desert’s warmth dwindled as the sun set, and Harry breathed deeply for a moment as he stared at the empty cobbled streets. Nobody left their houses this late anymore; they were all too afraid.

“What’s going on, Harry?” Freya was the first to ask, her forehead creased as she stared at Harry’s too pale face. “Something happened in the kitchen, didn’t it? After we left.” 

He hesitated. Had he been with Ron and Hermione, he might have told them about it. Sometimes, he found it hard to remember that Luke and Freya  _ weren’t _ his old friends, so easily had he slipped into their lives-- but they were, in the end, just children. Freya was just fourteen and already worn down by their broken world. Luke-- well, Luke was a baby in comparison, still a little boy. They  _ were _ his friends, but they were also his to safeguard-- and to burden them with his broken heart, the darkness in his past, would be nothing short of cruel. 

“Oh, nothing,” he murmured, after the silence started to drag on just a split second too long. “Your dad got a little drunk, and it made me nervous. That’s all.” 

Freya accepted the explanation with a nod of understanding. “Yeah, he does that sometimes,” she spoke with a cavalier attitude, non too shocked, nor even displeased, and distant alarm bells began to ring in Harry’s mind. 

He blinked at her, concern suddenly pressing as he stared at the young girl before him. “Does he do it a lot?” he asked, warily, suddenly feeling very apprehensive, a cold sort of panic coming over him. Vernon Dursley had loved his drink.

“Occasionally,” Freya’s smile was bitter, and in that moment she appeared far older than her young age. “If Mama’s had a bad night, he’ll be drinking ‘till the next sunrise. Don’t worry though,” she placated, as though she could sense his sudden unease. “He’ll go to bed if I tell him to, and then he’s knocked out until he’s sober.”

“I see,” Harry let out a breath slowly, mind reeling. It was-- it was  _ concerning,  _ in more ways than one. It was becoming more and more apparent that Freya had  _ no one  _ to turn to-- no stability, no  _ nothing,  _ perhaps not since her brother had left, seven years prior. “He’s not dangerous, is he? He’s never-- oh, I don’t know, he’s never hurt you, has he?” he had to check; had to be sure that the young teenager wasn’t living the way he had, ducking her head, afraid of when the next blow would come. 

The girl looked at him oddly, then, blinking guilelessly at him in curiosity. “Of course not,” she spoke, confusion rife in her young voice. “Why would he hurt me? He’s my dad.” 

For a moment, he couldn’t speak, for how tight his throat felt. “Of course not,” he echoed. The words sounded strained even to his ears, and he silently berated himself as Freya stared at him in alarm. “Don’t worry,” he spoke too quickly, he knew, but he was trembling slightly, and he was afraid it would be heard in his voice. “I’m sure you’re right. He wouldn’t.”

Freya’s eyes were wide as she looked up at him.  _ “Harry,”  _ she whispered. “Why did you think my father would hurt me?” 

Her expression wasn’t one of fear as he’d expected, but one of pity, and he closed his own eyes as he cursed her astuteness. She’d realised.  _ She knew. _

“It doesn’t matter.” He lowered his head, shame flooding his body. He was being exposed at every turn, by Jacob, Nova, even Freya. It felt like his trauma was being laid out bare for all the world to see, and in turn the world had come to view his scarred past as though it were an exhibition at a museum. There was no reprieve. He’d be haunted by Riddle until the day he died, the loss of his childhood staining his future forever. 

Freya was worrying her lip, her hand coming to rest on his arm. “It does matter Harry,” she hesitated, the pause longer than usual, as though she was choosing her words carefully. “Is it-- I mean, was it your father? Is that why you thought my dad--”

“Freya, maybe you should stop talking?” Luke, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes, nervously clung to Harry’s sleeve. “He doesn’t look so good.”

Harry had felt himself drain of colour, and he knew he was noticeably shaking, even as he tried to settle his trembling limbs. But he was frightening the child beside him, he could see, and despite his hammering heart he managed a watery smile as he ruffled the younger boy’s fluffy hair. “It’s okay, Luke. It’s just hard for me to talk about,” seeing the confusion on the faces of the two children, he elaborated gently. “My father was killed when I was a baby, my mother too.”

Freya looked like she was about to cry, and Harry slipped an arm around her even as she shakily whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s okay,” he pulled her to his side. “Let’s just enjoy our walk, yeah? We were trying to get away from the drama, remember? Not causing our own.”

“Yeah!” Luke perked up at this, tugging on Harry’s hand. “Come on, Mum  _ never _ lets us out late like this.”

Freya giggled, the look of concern she’d worn finally abating as it was replaced by a flush of excitement that adorned her tanned cheeks. “Let’s go to the piazza,” she volunteered, her eyes shining as she skipped ahead, grinning from ear to ear. 

For children whose lives were dictated by the dangers of war, even this much freedom was considered a luxury.

It was a thrill that remained well into the hour, until the light had almost fully receded, the darkness all but engulfing them, and it was at this point that Harry had tentatively suggested that perhaps they should go home.

And then, just as they started to turn back, Luke had stiffened, his tiny limbs tense and his face all screwed up. “Quiet,” he whispered, in a voice that was strangely sharp _ .  _ His movements were stiff and jolting as he tilted his head, burgundy eyes shunning the world around him.

Harry moved forward. “Luke?” he frowned, worry suddenly gripping him as he caught hold of the twelve-year-old’s thin shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Luke, what--”

“I _said _be quiet,” the child hissed, just as Freya seized his other arm, looking as though she were about to join Harry in his marked concern. “Can’t you hear it?” the words he spoke were hushed, barely above a whisper, but still ringing clear in the tepid dusk.

“Hear what?” Freya’s voice was loud-- too loud, for the young boy glowered murderously at her. “Luke, I don’t--”

“Freya,” Harry caught her attention, before shaking his head and bringing a finger to his lips, hushing her as he held her gaze. 

They were silent for a moment, each straining their ears in an attempt to pick up whatever Luke thought he’d heard just then, and it was only when Harry was about to give up that he caught the faint sounds of someone shouting. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, so distant were the cries, but there was something terribly desperate in the way the person was yelling, and his hairs stood on end, shivers running down his spine as he listened to their screams.

“Luke,” he spoke, turning to the child with a new sense of urgency. “I need you to--” he stopped, staring at the twelve-year-old. Sudden worry struck him hard, his chest tightening as he stooped so he was eye level with the boy. Luke was paler than Harry had ever seen him, his burgundy eyes filled with a look of uncertain horror. “Lukas?” Harry’s own tone was audibly wavering as he took a hold of the little boy’s shoulders.

“Harry,” Luke choked out, meeting his gaze with sudden, feverish terror. “I know that voice. _I know that voice.”_

“How?” Freya shared a frightened glance with Harry, before reverting her own eyes back to her shivering little cousin. “How can you possibly tell? They must be so far away, Lukey.” She seemed as though she had a faint idea of what was going on at least, if the silent realisation that danced in tandem with blatant alarm across her young face was anything to go by, but her concern for the child in front of them was just as tangible as Harry’s own, as she pressed her lips to the crown of his head. “Luke, who did you hear?”

The small boy opened his mouth, only to snap it shut as another tortured yell arose, closer this time, the sound more concrete, though the words themselves remained unintelligible, and he ripped himself away from the grasp of the two teenagers, stumbling backwards as they gaped at him in shock.

And then the twelve-year-old ran, sprinting towards the agonising cries with a fervour that stunned Harry only for a moment, before he started to follow, vaguely aware of Freya’s own pounding footsteps behind him. “Luke!” he yelled, gasping for breath as he tore through the cobbled streets. “Lukas, stop! Get back here!” he was gaining on the child, for the boy’s thin, short legs had no chance against his own much longer ones, but that didn’t seem to matter to Luke, who steadfastly ignored him as the yells sounded, louder and piercing. 

The desperate pleas were clear as day now, with one phrase rising above all of the others in a repetitive kind of begging imploration:  _ “Help me!” _

The damning words sent dread pooling at the pit of Harry’s stomach, but he didn’t have time to think about it as he rounded a corner, nearly colliding with the smaller boy who had suddenly, inexplicably stopped, dead in the middle of the deserted road.

“Luke!” he held the child still, turning the boy to face him as he trembled, adrenaline pumping wildly through his veins as his heart raced unevenly. “Never run off again,” he shook the twelve-year-old, sudden fear flooding his system as he fell tears of anger well up, and he brushed them away impatiently. “Lukas!” he snapped when he failed to get the younger boy’s attention. “Look at me!”

The child did not, but continued to stare at something in the near distance, just as Freya caught up with them, her breaths coming in harsh pants as she too focused her frightened gaze to the road ahead of them. A wounded noise came from the back of her throat, causing Harry to glance sharply round, before he let go of Luke just fast enough to catch the girl as she fell heavily to her knees on the sharp stones. 

“Who?” the young girl whispered, allowing Harry to guide her unsteadily to her feet again. “Which one…?” she didn’t finish her sentence, though fear punctuated every word with blinding intensity.

Harry followed their line of sight, eyes straining in the dark, colourless night. A pair of figures, definitively men, were visible in the dim light. One clearly stood, his silhouette at least a head taller than Harry himself. The second lay crumpled at the other’s feet, held up only partially by the strained grip the first had on him, whose arms were shaking in a clear attempt to bear the man’s likely considerable weight. 

Luke, free from Harry’s numbing grip, crossed the remaining distance on shaky legs, as though he were a baby foal taking its first steps. “Ethan?” his young voice trembled with a kind of dread that turned the blood in Harry’s veins to ice, and left a sour taste in his mouth that did not subside as the child spoke again, relief mixed with fresh pain resounding in the words. “What happened, Ethan?”

Harry tugged Freya with them as he edged closer, watching warily as Luke took another step towards them. The man still fully conscious was staring at the child in blatant shock. “Lukas?” he breathed, voice hoarse as he choked out, “What are you  _ doing  _ here?”

“Ethan?” Freya’s words were frighteningly hollow. “But then-- then--” she cut herself off, her face suddenly a ghastly, ashen green as she stumbled, legs giving way once again until she was kept upright only by Harry’s own strength. “No,” she whispered, before her hushed anguish became a scream and she tried to fling herself towards the two men, her words becoming indistinguishable from her wailing sobs. Harry held her, arms wound tightly around her waist as he realised with a mounting horror that the man cradled limply in the other’s arms was less of a man and more of a cooling corpse, and it was at that point he understood; understood Luke’s shaky relief, and Freya’s agonised cries, and the brokenness of the man still standing. Ethan, Luke’s older brother, had made it back, but Freya’s had not. 

Benjamin Byrne was dead, his decaying body producing an acrid stench that both nauseated and repulsed Harry, and had he been a stranger to death he might actually have vomited. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t, and it was all he could do to give his remaining strength to the child shivering, lacklustre in his arms.

It was then, as the clock in the bell tower struck the eleventh hour, that Harry caught the soldier’s shattered gaze, the older man’s crimson eyes burning brightly even in the vapid darkness of the frigid, merciless night. Stark guilt was written all over his face as he took in the devastated appearance of his younger cousin, before his assessing glare swept over Harry. His eyes held a sudden apprehension, as he gently lowered the body to the ground, taking a step forward so he was directly in front of Luke. Harry knew that posture, had used it a countless number of times himself, and he realised that Ethan Byrne viewed him as a threat.

“Let her go.” The words were unnervingly steady, all the exhaustion he’d exhibited before disappearing from his rough voice as he took a defensive posture. “Let her go, boy.” 

“No,” Harry’s voice was shaking, any composure he’d once had long gone, but he stood his ground, holding the little girl protectively as she struggled, reaching for someone no longer there. “His body must have been decaying for days to get into that state,” he winced as Freya made a retching sound at the utterance, but he persisted, desperately praying that he wouldn’t throw up himself. “It would be dangerous to let her go. You-- you should keep away from him too,” he couldn’t help himself then, as he whispered the soft words. “I’m  _ sorry.” _

_ _

There was a silence then, obtrusive and overwhelming, as the young man before him seemed to look at him-- really look at him in his entirety, from his slight stature, to the way he was cradling the little girl gently, but firmly in his thin arms, before his gaze rested on the teenagers sweat-soaked face, frightened emerald eyes contrasting starkly with his black hair and pale skin, fear turning his complexion to a ghostly white, belying his usual healthy tan. 

“Please,” Harry choked, unsure of what it was he was truly saying, the words driven by fear and desperation as he shivered, trembling with the knowledge that soldiers who felt they had nothing to lose could be capable of just about anything, and he-- he was holding a  _ child.  _ “I’m sorry, just-- just don’t--”

Ethan laughed hollowly, and it was a horrid, defective sound. “You’re sorry huh?” he grimaced, but made no move towards the two teenagers, and Harry was stricken to see tears fall sparsely down his dirt-streaked face as the pretence crumbled. “I should have known,” the young man’s voice was almost a whisper, as he murmured. “You’re not even Amestrian, are you kid?” his mouth twisted into an odd, contemplative frown. “They’d never have let you live if you were.”

“He’s not,” Luke spoke when Harry found himself unable to, and though his young voice trembled, there was a sharpness to his tone, almost an admonishment, directed at his older brother. “He couldn’t even  _ speak  _ Amestrian five months ago.”

“Luke?” Harry whispered, and when the little boy met his gaze he couldn’t help but inhale sharply, because instead of the fear he expected to see there was something akin to defiance  _ burning  _ in those eyes. It was the same protectiveness that Harry knew was present in his own as he held the broken doll of a girl in his shaky grip.

And Ethan  _ stared _ at the twelve-year-old, his brow furrowed as though he were looking at the child for the first time. Harry wondered how long it had been since the older man had been home. It was clear that this was the first time the elder was catching a glimpse of the man the little boy would soon become--  _ was  _ becoming, in leaps and bounds ahead of his peers. “Lukas, it's okay,” he gentled his tone, as he took a step towards his younger brother,  _ away _ from the rotting body heaped on the cold stones, comprehension bleeding into those bright,  _ bright  _ eyes. “I’m not going to hurt them.”

And then he knelt, lifting his arms, barely having time to whisper. “C’mere, kid,” before the little boy was flying into them, a sob dying in his throat as he clung to the man with a fierceness that might even have hurt, had his brother not reciprocated with an equal, indomitable strength. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, grief audible in his voice as he held the twelve-year-old. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here, Lukey.”

They were like that for a moment, holding each other as though it was the first time they’d done so, and the last they’d ever get to, before Ethan pulled back, his hands remaining, gripping the child’s shoulders as he looked into the boy’s eyes. “Listen, Lukas,” he spoke, and the sudden, grave undertone to his voice was jarring. “I need you to be really brave for me right now. Do you think you can do that?” The question was genuine, and Harry realised the man really was giving his little brother a choice.

“Y-yes,” the child’s reply was halting, though consternation and confusion displayed themselves pervasively across his young face.

Ethan clearly saw the fright, for he smiled reassuringly at the boy as he murmured, “I need you to run home and get Dad, and--” his eyes flickered to Harry and his charge, before he glanced back at the broken body lying prone in the dust and stone. “And ask him to bring some linen sheets, thick ones preferably.”

“But--” something in the child’s expression seemed to crumble, tears beginning to track down his cheeks as he followed his brother’s gaze to his cousin’s festering remains.  _ “Ethan--” _

“Go,” the man begged, his eyes pleading with the little boy. “Please, Luke.  _ Go now,”  _ the desperation in the young man’s voice was palpable.

The little boy pulled away, anxiety clear as he fell back a few, hesitant steps. “Okay,” he choked out, sounding all of a sudden as though he might throw up as he spared them one last glance. “Just wait,” he turned, raising his high, childish voice so it rang clear in the cooling air. “Wait here,” and then he ran, only visible for a split second before he was swallowed into the darkness of the night.

And Harry was left, alone with a battered soldier, a broken child, and the remains of a dead man.

Freya had fallen still in his arms, no longer fighting him to run to her brother, and he lowered them both to the ground, turning her so she was facing away from the body. Her eyes were vacant, unseeing, and if it hadn’t been for her slow blinking, or the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest, he’d have thought she’d breathed her last as well.

He shook her gently, scared of hurting her, but frightened by the deadened glaze of her ruby eyes that were usually so full of vitality. “Freya?” he looked anxiously at Ethan, who was watching them with an unidentifiable expression on his tired face. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, aware he sounded like a child, but too worn out to really care. “Why is she like this?”

The soldier stood slowly, moving from where he was sitting, painfully, on the sharp cobbles that lined the compacted, sandy streets of the village. He came over, kneeling in front of Harry and Freya, his broad shoulders effectively blocking any view the teenagers might have had of the cadaver just metres away from them. “You’ve never seen this before?” he asked carefully, a hand coming to rest softly on the little girl’s head as he addressed Harry.

Harry remembered what Nova had said to him,  _ “I know a soldier’s eyes.” _

He was sure the young man in front of him did too. Ethan could see his past, for the same look was reflected in the man’s own crimson orbs. They both had the eyes of a killer.

He shook his head mutely, shivering as a quiet breeze picked up around them. “You have?” he asked, meeting the man’s gaze.

“It’s a form of shell shock. She’s shut down. Everything that was going on became too much for her.” Ethan affirmed, but didn’t elaborate, even at Harry’s questioning look. He pulled the girl’s limp body against his own, so she was fully facing Harry as she rested against his chest. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured, stroking her pale hair as he gently rocked to and fro in the dust and grime. “You’re okay.”

“Is she going to come back?” Harry whispered, reaching out and clutching the child’s tan hand in his own pale ones.

Ethan paused in his ministrations, blinking at the boy in front of him. “What’s your name, kid?” his brow furrowing as he regarded the teenager with no small amount of concern.

“Harry.”

“How old are you?” The young man's tone was mild and Harry recognised it as the same voice he’d used when talking to Luke: gentle, reassuring, the guise of someone in control, and Harry might have believed the facade if he hadn’t worn it himself, in another life. 

“You don’t know, do you?” he choked out, ignoring the question as he stared at the catatonic little girl. “You don’t know if she’ll come back,” her mother was often in a similar state, her grip on sanity tenuous at best, and if this was the event that pushed Freya over the proverbial edge, there wasn’t much that could be done.

Something sharp flickered across the man’s expression, and though his countenance remained calm, there was an edge to his voice as he spoke. “I recommend shutting up, kid. Her ears work just fine.”

Harry flinched. “I’m sorry,” he sniffed, contrition spilling from his eyes, and he scrubbed furiously at his face in shame.

“Don’t cry,” Ethan muttered, though his tone softened somewhat, even as his words remained harsh. “You won’t help anyone if you cry.”

There wasn’t much to say to that, and the boy fell silent, clenching his eyes shut even as the silvery droplets betrayed him, seeping out under his trembling lashes in rivulets.

That was how they stayed, and though Elliott and Jacob arrived just minutes later, those minutes felt like hours to Harry, and Jacob’s howl of despair as he fell upon his son’s broken body seemed to last a century.

It was another minute later when Elliott knelt beside them, his expression grim even as he clasped Ethan’s shoulder in a blatant show of relief. “Can you carry her?” he asked his son.

  
“Of course,” Ethan was unwavering. 

“Harry?” Elliott’s voice was gentle as he turned to the teenager, wrapping a comforting arm around the boy’s shaking shoulders. “It’s going to be okay, buddy,” he rose, pulling Harry to his feet as he did so, and motioning for Ethan to do the same.

Jacob held the bundled remains in his arms, his face blank as he started towards them, “We should go,” he stated, eyes dull, pain disguising itself as cold apathy. “He’s been above ground too long.”

Harry stumbled into the house long past eleven that night.


	8. Arc 1~ 8

They’d crammed a second bed into the smallest room of the house, and that was where Harry now lay, listening to the soft breaths of the boy in the cot lying parallel to his own, waiting for ( _ dreading) _ the fearful sobs that came every night. Since Ethan’s return the little boy hadn’t been able to sleep peacefully, gripped by the waking nightmare he’d endured, grieving the loss of his cousin, and bearing the stress as he watched the shell his older brother had become. Barely a week had gone by since that fateful night, and unease hung heavily in the air, as though a curtain of fog had been draped over them all.

An agonising scream echoed throughout the house, audible despite the thick stone that separated each room. Harry flinched as he pulled his pillow over his head in an attempt to muffle the sound, hoping against hope that the younger of the room’s two occupants hadn’t heard the terrified wails. Ethan’s night terrors disturbed them all, and though nobody would dare grudge the soldier for it, Luke suffered the brunt of his brother’s misery.

The child shifted under the covers, brow creasing in distress as he let out a keening whimper that filled Harry with equal amounts of sorrow and pity. He was sure the man would cease his cries soon, as his mother rose from her bed each night to comfort him, but he pulled himself out of his own anyway, padding over to kneel at the little boy’s bedside and shaking him gently. “Luke,” he murmured, squeezing the twelve-year-old’s shoulders. He felt as though his heart was being held in a vice-like grip. “It’s okay, you’re dreaming,” another scream reverberated through the walls and the boy’s face contorted fearfully at the sound. 

“No,” the child moaned, his young voice slurred with sleep and fear as he twisted in his sheets. “No, please, come back--”

“Wake up, Luke!” Harry shook him again, a note of urgency making its way into his tone as he whispered. “Come on, kid.”

The boy’s eyes flew open, the burgundy orbs murky with a terror that slowly faded to abstract despair as he stared at the plastered ceiling above him.

“Luke?” Harry moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Reaching out, he pushed the child’s pale fringe away from his sweat-soaked brow, murmuring gently. “It was just a dream, kid. You’re okay.”

The twelve-year-old was shivering, and his voice trembled as he whispered, fear tangible in his timorous words. “It  _ wasn’t  _ just a dream, Harry,” he pushed himself to a sitting position, curling in on himself as though this would protect him from the memories that persisted even in his wakefulness. 

Harry swallowed. “I know,” it hurt, seeing the child in so much pain, and with the hurt came an irrational guilt, though he knew it made no real sense to feel that way. It was as though the universe was mocking him. The day he’d sworn to protect them was the same day he found himself unable to keep that oath, and the failure tore at his insides.

“You won’t tell, will you?” the anxious whisper pulled him from his thoughts, and he smiled reassuringly, pulling the covers around the thin shoulders of the shaking boy.

“I won’t,” he promised, as he did every night. “Try to get some sleep, Luke. I think Ethan’s settled down.”

The restless nights were a secret they both kept, for fear of burdening the wrecked shell of the soldier with yet another reason to despair. Luke had been adamant that not even his parents be told, fearful that they might let it slip to his older brother, and so Harry was the one who calmed him when he slipped into a frenzied slumber. The eighteen-year-old was intimately acquainted with such dreams on a regular basis anyway. Attending to the feverish phantasms of a young boy was child’s play compared to the encumbrance of his own. 

It did seem as though Ethan had quietened, for they could no longer hear his desperate cries, but Luke would not lie back down as he usually did, instead lifting his gaze to Harry’s own with a marked intensity, burgundy coloured flames in his burning eyes.

“I’m going to kill them,” his voice was still one of a child, and the high tone seemed incongruous with the words he spoke. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone to die before.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath at the macabre whisper, a mounting horror rising as he stared at the twelve-year-old. “Luke,” he choked out, swallowing convulsively. “Please don’t say that.”

“I want them dead, Harry,” the boy said simply. “Don’t you want that too? For the person who killed your parents?”

He didn’t answer--  _ couldn’t.  _ His parents’ murderer was dead at his own hands. Who was he to tell the child in front of him that such retribution was wrong? He could reason that he’d only sought to secure the safety of his loved ones-- he could tell the world this if he so wanted to. But regardless of rationality or even of morality, the end result had been the same. Tom Riddle had perished, and his parents’ deaths were finally avenged, and to claim he’d derived no gratification from the dark wizard’s fate would be a bold-faced lie.

“You can go back to sleep now,” Luke whispered, when the older boy didn’t answer. “I’m okay now, Harry.” 

Except he didn’t seem okay; his mouth remained tight and his eyes were bright with a piercing anger so out of place on his youthful face that Harry couldn’t help but reach for the child, pulling him in a crushing hug as he whispered. “Don’t ever kill anyone, Lukas.”

“Harry?” The twelve-year-old sounded confused but the teenager didn’t elaborate, giving no answer except to hold the younger boy tighter.

“I mean it,” Harry murmured after a moment. “You shouldn’t say things like that. You’re good, Lukey. You should stay that way.”

The innocence of a child was something to nurture, to protect, even as it decayed before his very eyes. The rottenness of the world lay deep within its core, such was the way of humanity, and it was all Harry could do to keep the boy’s childhood alive just a little while longer. God only knew his own had died a long time ago. As soon as he allowed Luke to speak in such a way he’d have to acknowledge the futility of the endeavour, and that very possibility might have broken him just then. And he couldn’t break, because he was  _ needed. _

And so he reiterated himself. “Please don’t say things like that.”

Perhaps the younger boy understood, to an extent at least, for he gave no further argument but simply nodded into Harry’s chest. “I won’t,” he whispered, reciprocating the embrace in full as he squeezed the eighteen-year-old around the middle. “I won’t again.”

“Thank you,” the words were weighted with gratitude.

They fell asleep still holding each other, brothers in a storm that brooked no mercy and sworn protectors over the ones they loved.

They never saw the warm smile Nova bestowed upon them when she came to wake them the coming morning, nor did they witness her leave again, deciding a few more hours of sleep might do her boys a world of good.

Perhaps it did.

* * *

It was another week before the nights finally regained some semblance of peace, though the lingering stench of grief still hung witheringly in the air. The lament became a private affair, silently nursed in the fragments of time between daily responsibilities. As the old adage would say: life went on.

Nova spent most of her time looking after Sigrid Byrne, whose mental state had taken a steep turn for the worst. She was aided in part by Freya, who had, after a frightening length of time, come back to herself. It was after hearing this that Harry had almost wept with relief, so frightened he had been of the living corpse that the little girl had become.

Elliott went back to his carpentry, bringing in some much needed income to the household, insistently rejecting Harry’s attempts to help him. “You need to rest,” the man had said. No doubt the new knowledge he bore of the teenager’s past was weighing heavily on his mind. 

_ That gate is closed to me,  _ that was what Harry had said. That was what Elliott had heard. 

The curiosity was probably eating the man alive.

Even Luke had started playing with his friends again, occasionally roping Harry into his games; something the eighteen-year-old didn’t mind, but still found dull at times, the age difference between himself and the other boys often too large to bridge in terms of the intellectual conversation the children had to offer.

It was for these reasons that Harry was left mostly alone. In ordinary circumstances he might have been okay with this, though the involuntary isolation proved to feel uncomfortably close to the time he spent locked in his cupboard, in the early years of his childhood. The days that had past, however, couldn’t ever conceivably be considered ordinary, even by his standards, and he was reminded wherever he looked of another time: another battle, locked in a war by a maniac hellbent on ruling the earth. Though he could only presume that wasn’t the case in this world (and it  _ was _ a presumption, because really, knowing  _ his  _ luck) the violence and bloodshed he’d witnessed just two weeks prior had hit him a little too close to home.

With nobody around to speak with at length-- to act as a sounding board for the confusion that had enveloped his thoughts-- he was currently sitting alone in the parlour, pale face streaked with saltwater and snot, so certain that nobody would wander in and find him there that he hadn’t even bothered to close the door.

So, when someone did enter the room, he jumped so violently he nearly fell off the couch.

“Easy, kid,” the intruder raised his arms in the universal sign of surrender. He frowned, brow furrowing as he caught sight of the boy’s reddened eyes, and he pulled out a square of cloth from his pocket, handing it to the teenager with the soft command to wipe his face.

Harry did so, blowing his nose for good measure. He kept hold of the white slip of fabric once he was done, certain he wouldn’t be asked to return it.

He was proven right when the young man-- young, but still far older than Harry was-- breathed a sigh, sinking down onto the other end of the sofa and remaining silent, looking as though he were going to wait until the boy had dried his tears to speak.

Ethan Byrne was tall and broad-shouldered, a posture he appeared to have inherited from his father. He was also painstakingly thin, a side effect of living on the front line of a war, where food was hard to come by and finding a time to eat even more challenging. His face was gaunt, the dark shadows that undercut his crimson eyes only accentuating the sharpness of his features, and his white-blond hair was chopped roughly, held by a ribbon at the base in his skull in a clear effort to keep it from being an obstruction to his vision. He seemed to be made for battle-- the sharp edges of the hole that his cousin and comrade’s death had punched in him pointing outwards, as though a protective layer of shattered glass had formed around his heart. The next time he would not be so easily broken, Harry was sure, and as the fire in the man’s eyes burned steadily, unwavering in the face of returning to the battlefield alone, he could only be grateful that the soldier seemed to hold no animosity towards him.

Harry tried to quell the shivers that wracked his slight frame, but found he couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m sorry,” he choked the stilted apology, though what he was supposed to be atoning for he wasn’t quite sure.

Ethan just looked at him a moment before he stood, leaving the room and returning before Harry had even had the time to process his absence. He held a cloak in his hands, the same manteau that had been woven for the eighteen-year-old by Nova. The soldier moved to stand in front of the boy, giving a sharp order of, “arms up!” which Harry obeyed immediately, lifting his arms into the air with a questioning look that was quickly covered from view, the wrap unceremoniously thrown over his head.

Disgruntled, Harry worked to pull the cloak on properly, staring up at the soldier with an expression that could only be described as a pout-- and one that would normally be seen on the visage of a child years younger than he.

Ethan was standing over him with an amused glint in his eyes that remained even as he leaned down to press the back of his hand against the younger boy’s forehead. When he pulled back there was an edge to his expression, and he settled onto the couch once more, putting a little less distance between himself and the trembling eighteen-year-old than had been there before. “Are you feeling alright?” his tone was measured, the words calm and collected as he glanced at the boy beside him.

Harry looked away. The sleepless nights had taken their toll on his already overstretched immune system, and it wasn’t a shock to awaken that morning to the telltale tremors of a fever. It had been an unwelcome intrusion, and with the addition of the stress brought on by the last two weeks, his inhibitions had lowered long enough for tears to flow. He hesitated, before shrugging his shoulders in reply. He heavily disliked illness, and loathed admitting to it even more, but he was too fatigued to bother lying to the young man. Another violent shiver tore through him, and he pulled the cloak tightly around himself, suddenly grateful for its warmth.

Ethan didn’t push the issue, though his mouth tightened with clear displeasure at Harry’s non-answer. Instead he sighed, the sound heavy and full of a weariness that momentarily threw the teenager beside him. “Who are you, Harry?” his expression was unreadable; something that frightened the eighteen-year-old, though there had been no signs of malice in the older man’s tone. This was the first time someone had asked him that question-- of course, those same words had been spoken to him time and time again, but this time? The answer Ethan had been looking for was something else entirely.

“I--” he couldn’t speak all of a sudden, feeling very much like he might throw up. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

The words were so softly spoken Harry could barely hear them, but they were there. Vomit rose up, unbidden, into his throat and he clamped a hand over his mouth, feeling an odd, cold fuzziness come over him as he pushed himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily. His head pounded as he stood, and he fought the sudden anxiety that had started clawing at the walls of his stomach, a black tinge creeping into the corners of his vision.

He heard Ethan swear crudely, frustration unmistakable in the sharp words, but the younger boy didn’t have time to react before gentle arms steadied him and he found himself being led across the hall into the kitchen by the man, whose expression had shifted to one of worry as he quickly marched the teenager to the sink. He rested a hand atop the teenager's mass of black curls, cursing again as he hissed under his breath, “You’re burning up.”

Gripping the edges of the basin, Harry gagged, groaning as a sudden chill made him spasm against the counter. “I’m sorry-” was all he managed to get out, before his stomach violently ejected its contents. He flushed, embarrassment mixing with the fevered hue that adorned his cheeks, suddenly grateful he’d foregone eating breakfast that day as he stared at the watery bile pooling in the metal tub. 

“You done?” the words were soft, and when Harry nodded shakily Ethan pulled him away, sitting him down carefully at the kitchen table and handing over a tea towel to mop his face before reaching to turn on the tap. The water ran steadily, washing away his sin, before it was shut off moments later.

The man knelt in front of him, hands pressing against his forehead and cheeks. He whistled, concern clear in his voice as he murmured. “You really don’t do things by half, do you kid?” Standing, he held out his hand to Harry. “Let’s get you to bed,” he made to pull the teenager to his feet, eyebrows drawing together in an unimpressed stare as he met with resistance. 

“I-- you wanted to talk,” the eighteen-year-old tried to explain, though the fevered daze was making his head spin, and he was struggling to remember which way was up. “Didn’t-- didn’t you want to?”

“That was before you started puking your guts up,” the young man replied kindly, his eyes softening as he squeezed the boy’s arm in a clear attempt at comfort. “Come on, now. You’ll probably feel better if you get some sleep--”

“It wasn’t--” Harry pulled away, folding his arms on the hard oak and resting his throbbing head in the nest he’d created. “I didn’t throw up because-- because of--”

“The fever.” Ethan’s tone was edged with something that wasn’t quite frustration. “I know that. I know what a panic attack looks like, but I’m not some bastard that enjoys frightening sick children.”

“I’m  _ not _ a child,” Harry tried to snap, but his voice cracked halfway through and he ended up just sounding pathetic. He closed his eyes as shame crept over him, fighting the angry tears that threatened to fall.

Hands grasped at his shoulders, levering him into a sitting position. The same hands settled on the nape of his neck, his forehead once again, before letting him go, allowing him to slump back down onto the tabletop. He heard the door open and close, footsteps fading down the thin hallways of the house, and he wondered miserably if he’d angered the older man.

But he didn’t conjecture for long, for the footsteps returned, the door creaking once more. The tap was turned on and the lull of the running water soothed his hurting head, if only for a brief moment before the faucet was shut off again. 

There was a brief pause, and then a murmur of: “I’m sorry, kid.” He didn’t get the chance to ask Ethan just what he was apologising for before he was biting back a shriek, his exposed skin meeting with an icy cold that wracked his fevered body with shivers, trickling down his face and back in rivulets.

He blinked his eyes open in shock, staring at the man who had taken the chair adjacent to his own. “What-- what is this?” he rasped, a touch of betrayal in his voice as he lifted his hand, grasping the soggy, freezing towel that covered his neck and the majority of his head, leaving only his pallid face exposed.

“A compromise,” Ethan stated firmly, catching the younger boy’s arm as he moved to push away the sodden cloth. “It's this or sleep, kid. You’re too warm.”

“It’s  _ cold,”  _ Harry complained, though he left the towel where it was, his arm dropping back onto the table with a small thud.

“It feels cold to  _ you,”  _ the man beside him corrected, gently.

Harry closed his eyes in acquiescence. Though the shivers had become more pronounced, his thoughts were clearer. Not enough time had passed for his fever to truly lower, but the coolness had helped to alleviate the pounding in his head, and the pain had calmed to little more than a dull ache. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” he whispered, swallowing back the anxiety that threatened to return full force as he uttered the question.

Ethan looked contrite as he folded his hands together, staring at the wall with an unhappy downturn to his mouth. His expression was hesitant, even as he started talking, the words stilted and unsure. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he finally spoke, traces of guilt in the usually composed tone. “I’m not... you have to understand that I’m not worried about you. Or I am, but not that way--” he paused scrubbing his hands over his face in an uncharacteristic show of agitation. “No, I’m not explaining this right. Harry, I  _ know  _ you’re not a threat to my family. I knew you weren’t Amestrian from the second I heard your accent. You’ve probably been told you look Amestrian, right?”

“Right,” confusion was overshadowing his nervousness as he blinked up at the older man.

“This village,” Ethan murmured. “It's one of the oldest in the Ishvalan territory. The people that live here? Most of them hadn’t even stepped foot in the city of Ishval until the war. Most of those who remain still haven’t. They-- to them, an Ishvalan has always been someone with pure heritage. They see it in the hair, in the eyes, the colour of the skin,” he shook his head. “Not  _ ideal,  _ you understand. The people I fight with, Ishvalans from other areas of the province, many of them have hair the colour of yours. Some don’t even have the red irises that make us so identifiable. If they were to come here, they would be treated with the same suspicion you were, because they aren’t  _ pure,”  _ a small amount of disgust dripped from the word as he spoke.

“Purebloods.” Harry whispered cynically, memories of another time, sickening slurs and bitter taunts rising to the surface of his mind. 

The young man’s brow creased as he glanced at the boy. “You  _ could _ put it like that, I suppose,” he said, slowly. “Point is, it didn’t take me long out there to realise they were wrong to think that way. When I saw you holding Freya, Harry, I  _ was _ trying to work out if you were a danger to her, but whether or not you were Amestrian didn’t really come into it. Not beyond the possibility that you might have been one of their soldiers,” he grimaced. “But I know you won’t hurt them. You’ve been here for months. If you wanted to then you would have done so already. It didn’t take me long to work  _ that  _ one out.”

Oh.

He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry; he’d been so sure that Ethan would hate him. He’d been sleeping in the man’s childhood bedroom, and he’d been heavy with guilt as he’d watched Nova change the linens on the bed, feeling as though he’d stolen something irreplaceable. Worse still, he was, by all appearances, Amestrian, and for someone like him to covet Ethan’s loved ones as he had, viewing them, selfishly, as his own, eating their food and jealously guarding the affection they had freely offered him, and doing all this as the fabled _enemy,_ he’d been certain the young man would despise him.

He was almost sure that he  _ should. _ He’d been nothing more than a burden, a drain-- weak, pathetic, sick and entirely incapable of fending for himself. 

Except--

Ethan had been kind. He’d looked after Harry, going out of his way to keep the younger boy safe. It certainly didn’t  _ seem _ as though the man hated him.

“You don’t think I’m a threat?” The relief in his voice was palpable, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he raised his head from his arms to stare at the man beside him.

“I don’t,” Ethan confirmed, though he frowned as he spoke, something distantly sharp in his crimson eyes as he met the boy’s gaze. “That’s what has been bothering me, Harry.”

Harry stayed silent, feeling as though speaking just then might have been worse than not saying anything at all.

The man was hesitating, his expression conflicted as he stared at the teenager still trembling under the soaked towel. For a moment it looked as though he wouldn’t elaborate, dragging his hand over his face in a move that spoke clearly of his unease, before he finally murmured the words the younger boy had been dreading: “I know a soldier when I see one, kid.” 

“And that’s what you think I am,” he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice as he closed his eyes against the exhaustion that had stolen into his heart. He’d known--  _ he’d known _ that Ethan would be able to see it, the same way Nova had, but still, it felt as though his sins were laid bare. It was all he could do to keep his magic a secret, for every time he tried to hide his past it seemed as though he wore its burdens on his sleeve.

“When I first went to the front line, I was eighteen, Harry,” Ethan’s tone was wry. “You know, I’ve looked back thinking I was too young. And I probably was-- but there were kids there who hadn’t even finished puberty yet, who still played with  _ toys _ . Those children went to war, and now? They’re either dead, or they look like you.  _ Look _ at me.”

Harry glanced up, his stomach churning. “I’ve not fought in your war, Ethan.”

“Then tell me where,” the words were spoken softly. “Aerugo? The border skirmishes?”

_ “Ethan,”  _ Harry choked out.  _ “Please,  _ just--” he shook his head, wincing as the movement caused the pounding to intensify. “I can’t tell you. Please, I can’t tell you.”

The older man was silent for a moment, before murmuring, timbre soft, as though afraid of being overheard. “Can’t or won’t?”

Harry considered them much the same thing under the circumstances. He’d seen the way the villagers had reacted to alchemy, citing it as witchcraft, as an  _ abomination.  _ What hope did he have of justifying magic to these people? _ _

He didn’t know enough about this world to lie convincingly. It was either the full truth, or none at all. A half spun tale would be more damaging than the absence of any.

“You don’t think I’m a danger, isn’t that enough?” he didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but his stomach was twisting itself into knots again, and he was sure his heart hadn’t been hammering so violently against his skull a moment ago.

“Should it be?” Ethan returned coolly, the warmth fading slightly from his tone. “You’ve been living with my family for months, kid, and none of them know a thing about you.”

_ They’re my family too,  _ he wanted to cry.  _ They’re mine as well. _

Except, well...

Ethan wasn’t wrong.

He stared into the man’s red eyes. The eyes of a killer.

A look he knew was mirrored in his own. He was sure that this was the reason for the older man’s insistence of divulging the circumstances in which he’d fought. For all that Ethan believed him not to be a threat, the man had no real assurance that he truly wasn’t one, taking to relying on his instincts and his own empirical observations to assess Harry’s character. The younger boy understood full well the fallibility of human intuition. It was for this reason that he struggled to trust his own whims-- how often had his impulses brought him anything resembling happiness? His own godfather had fallen because of his impetuous actions, after all.

On a battlefield, making the wrong decision could cost a person their life, or the lives of those around them. This truth remained the antithesis of the way such a situation would usually force that same individual to act-- with haste and no real room for forethought. Harry wondered how many lives had been lost because  _ Ethan _ had made the wrong call. The man clearly regarded his judgemental ability with the same scepticism that Harry viewed his own, a sentiment that lent itself to the likelihood that he’d lost more than just his naivety in the war.

Ethan believed Harry posed no danger to his family, but Ethan also did not trust his own ability to form rational conclusions, because he understood human error. 

Harry’s emerald eyes contained the murky, tainted guilt of a killer. He’d taken human life, and the older man  _ needed _ to know he hadn’t taken the lives of his people-- needed indomitable proof that the teenager wasn’t dangerous, regardless of his personal considerations.

Until Ethan knew this, he couldn’t trust himself, and therefore he couldn’t trust Harry.

It was an enlightening realisation for the younger boy, if not a condemning one.

“The first time I killed someone, I was eleven,” the eighteen-year-old offered, turning away from the piercing gaze. “It was in self defence, it was an accident, but I-- I still killed him.”

“How?” The question was surprisingly gentle, though the tone carried an undercurrent of quiet shock. He’d managed to surprise the man.

“I burned him; he fell to ash in my hands,” the boy swallowed, clenching his fists as his hands started to shake. “I still remember it sometimes. You know, you couldn’t even tell anymore-- that he was human, I mean. Not after what I did to him.”

Ethan’s eyes were wide, staring at Harry with a kind of abstract horror.  _ “Kid--” _

“There was only one other who died at my hand.” he hid his face, feeling as though he might not be able to continue if his emotions were exposed to the older man. “Many were murdered because of my interference, though. I still count those people. Their deaths are on my conscience,” he wiped his eyes impatiently, brushing the saltwater away with a vengeance.

“Harry--”

“No, wait, please,” the words tumbled from his mouth in his haste. “Please, let me finish.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair, nodding in acquiescence, though his voice deepened, his words sharp with worry even if he only uttered but few. “Go on,” he said quietly.

“That’s why-- I mean, you know now. What I’ve done, what I’m capable of,” Harry couldn’t bear to look at the man, afraid of the condemnation he was sure would be present in those crimson eyes. “You can hate me if you want. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t the vociferous laughter that followed, wet and oddly devoid of mirth in its resonance. Ethan’s voice was still shaking when he spoke, though his words held no amusement, but instead trembled with a kind of shadowed relief. “ _ This  _ is what you choose to tell me? And then you ask if I’d hate an eleven-year-old child for protecting himself?”

“It’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? I’m not-- I’ve  _ never  _ fought your people, Ethan. I know I can’t prove that. I can’t prove that anything I say is true, but I--” Harry broke off with a gasp as a weighted hand grasped his shoulder, turning his head in instinct. His eyes followed the movement until they met with Ethan’s own, red ones that brimmed with something almost unrecognisable-- as it was he could identify it, if only because he himself had, throughout his short life, become intimately acquainted with the concept.

Swirling in those crimson orbs, there lay stark  _ guilt _ .

“Harry,” the man began, before hesitating, as though he were recalculating, reordering; and then, instead of the apology the younger boy thought he might hear, Ethan uttered his acceptance. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything beyond that, and Harry was grateful. What he’d given the older man exceeded anything he’d thought he would ever impart to someone else. He hadn’t  _ wanted _ to, but he had  _ needed _ to, if he’d ever wanted to even partially assuage the suspicion that had been afforded to him. Even then, he could still see an impression of doubt swirling in those red eyes-- a shadow that was becoming rapidly outshone by the man’s crystal gratitude, but nevertheless lingered, hermetic.

Ethan, too, seemed to understand that he’d  _ never _ have had the chance to learn what Harry had told him, had it not been for their own dire circumstance, for he had yet to utter another word, despite the curiosity that painted itself clear across his face. It was not for him to know more, not  _ yet,  _ anyway, for premature trust disintegrated friendships quicker than fire could burn up a log, and the tentative camaraderie that had brewed between them during the passing hour remained shaky still.

They stayed there together, silent in their comprehension, inert in the gravity of Harry’s words. After some time passed, the towel covering the boy’s head started to warm, helped in part by the obstinate manner in which his fever persisted, and the relieving properties it once held dimmed and departed. His head was no longer numbed; rather the pounding returned with a vengeance, and it was from this discomfort that he was impelled to rest once again in his folded arms, eyes closing to block out the daylight.

When he finally opened them again he was in his shared bedroom, a cool cloth pressed against his forehead. He did not remember falling asleep, but neither could he recall taking himself to bed. For a split second he wondered who had brought him there, before...

Of course. 

Ethan reclined, book in hand, lying sideways on his younger brother’s cot. It had to have been him. The young man’s expression was one of intense focus, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to interrupt whatever fiction he’d engrossed himself in--

\-- besides, the eighteen-year-old felt too warm and yet far too cold all at once, and returning to sleep was sounding more and more delicious in his half-awakened state-- indeed, his eyes were barely open as they were. He murmured an indistinguishable sound: perhaps a word-- but then again, perhaps not, so entrenched was he on the wrong side of consciousness.

Until, finally, he accepted his imminent slumber.


	9. Arc 1~ 9

The sun had barely risen from its slumber when Harry awoke the following day. His mind felt foggy, almost unbalanced-- as it would do, he supposed, for he’d been sleeping since noon the previous day while the fever raged through him. Eventually it must have burned itself out, for he opened his eyes with a cool forehead and bed-sheets that clung to him, uncomfortably damp with perspiration.

He blinked tiredly, scrubbing his face with his palms before pulling himself away from the soaked linen with a grimace. He dragged himself to his feet, glancing at the clock that hung, meticulously placed and adjacent to the large window.

Five.

Early, but not so early that the village would still be sleeping-- though Harry doubted anyone in the house would have woken yet. Their schedules coincided with the norm, and as such he could never expect them to be up and breakfasting until at least seven in the morning. This suited him well most days, for he was habitually an early riser (borne out of necessity: constant vigilance while living in a tent for a year had taught him to never sleep deeply). The dawn also provided the necessary isolation to practice and perform his magic-- a quiet but continuous study that proved at times to be frighteningly dull. Harry had never excelled at magical theory, and with the absence of any textbooks on the subject, he often found himself at a loss, unsure of where to turn and feeling woefully stagnant in the wake of his incomplete education.

He dressed as quietly as possible, mindful of the sleeping child lying sprawled across the tiny cot. The boy lay still, silent apart from his hushed breaths. He seemed peaceful; for once free of the horrific nightmares that had been plaguing his dreams, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to disturb the twelve-year-old’s unusually restful slumber.

It was with this thought in mind that he slipped out the door, opening and closing it without a creak, before making his way along the short corridor to the kitchen. He crossed the room, making a beeline for the sink, scrubbed clean after the mess he’d made of it, before running the cold tap and filling a glass with water. He swilled the sweet liquid around his mouth as he drank, washing away the stale flavour of illness that had clung to his taste buds, before refilling the tumbler and drinking again. 

He was _ thirsty. _

He’d found he needed to quench his parched throat far more often than he used to-- the heat of the desert making him sweat and his body craving the water it was losing. This was especially true after an illness. his cells using up the meagre amount they were supplied quicker than he was able to satiate them.

He was in the middle of his third glass when he heard the voice behind him, the words spoken in a whispered baritone, as though the speaker, too, concerned himself with the well-being of the sleeping family.

“Harry,” the voice murmured. “It’s a little early, don’t you think?”

He’d jumped at first, before recognition had kicked his still half-dozing brain into action, and he turned abruptly, his own emerald eyes meeting crimson ones. “Ethan?” his tone was level, even as surprise welled from within, and he blinked, attempting to clear the remaining fog of the post-fever haze.

The man was dressed in light clothes and soft leather boots; the sort good for hiking. He held a large rucksack in his arms, which he set carefully down on the kitchen table as he said, quietly, “I didn’t think anyone would be up.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile wryly then, as he met the young man’s gaze. “Neither did I.”

“What’s with that, then?” Ethan’s tone was casual, but the tightness around his eyes belied his nonchalance, his gaze fixed on the boy in front of him as he took in the sweat-soaked visage and the minute shivers that wracked the teenager’s thin frame. “You’re still feeling bad?” He moved towards him, reaching up and placing a hand on his forehead for what might have been the tenth time in the last two days. 

“Just tired,” Harry replied, his voice reassuring even as the man’s expression appeared to relax at the lack of warmth. “I woke up gross.”

“Gross?” There was a flicker of amusement in those red eyes, before Ethan stepped back, a sudden smirk adorning his face. “Who says gross?”

“Luke,” Harry grinned, his face the picture of innocence. “Why can’t _ I _say it?”

“You’re not twelve,” the words were gently mocking, but there was a certain fondness about them as the soldier ruffled Harry’s already _ heinously _ messy hair. “Why don’t you get a bit more sleep, hm? You can use my bed if yours is too _ gross,” _he stressed the childish word, eliciting a small glare from the eighteen-year-old. “I’m leaving in a moment, anyway.”

Leaving.

Harry blinked, and then mentally kicked himself, because he should have _noticed. _Ethan’s getup was obvious enough, even if he didn’t account for the man’s uncharacteristically early awakening.

He was still feeling the after-effects of the fever, quite clearly.

“Leaving,” he repeated, unable to keep the chill from his tone as he fought the bitter scowl that threatened to cloud his expression. “Where are you going?”

“Oh,” the smile wobbled but didn’t fall, despite the sudden shift in the atmosphere. “Just patrolling the walls, don’t worry yourself, Harry, I--”

_ “Ethan.” _

His tone was more accusing than he meant it to be.

The young man before him seemed to wilt, fatigue washing over his countenance-- though his eyes remained bright, taking on a cutting sheen as he murmured: “You’re a perceptive one, aren’t you?”

“No,” Harry countered. “Just not _stupid. _Why are you doing this to them?” He didn’t say ‘to us’, for he felt as though he hadn’t quite earned it, as though he hadn’t yet qualified for a place on the older man’s mantle of family. Still, there was an ugly sense of rejection welling from within him-- unwelcome though it was, and he couldn’t quite swallow it down as he whispered: “_How _could you do this to them?”

Ethan’s posture had stiffened as the younger boy spoke, his shoulders sharp and pointed and his expression rigid in a way that _ might _have appeared imposing, had he wanted it to. When he finally answered, his voice was controlled, emotionless even, despite his obvious discomfort. “You thought I wouldn’t go back?”

That-- that wasn’t quite it.

“No...” Harry dragged out the word. “I knew you would. Just--” he hesitated. It wasn’t really fair of him to find fault like this, not when he’d been guilty of the _ exact same thing-- _ except that _ he’d _ been barely seventeen, and _ this _ man was going on twenty-five, and it _ shouldn’t _ make a difference really, because it was experience, not _ age _ , and yet somehow it _ did, _ and he couldn’t help but choke out the damning words. “You haven’t even said _ goodbye.” _

He’d known Ethan would return to the war front, because he would have done the same. The similarities between them were stark-- and almost frightening; as much as he respected, even _ liked _ the soldier before him, the _ last _thing he wanted was for this brokenness to be what his future held for him.

His stomach was doing uncomfortable somersaults as he remembered _ that _ night. The night his head had been swirling so, and his heart had been heavy and aching with guilt, and he’d decided it was best to just go, to not drag anyone else deeper into his mess of a life. He’d thought he could do it himself, thought he could destroy the horcruxes alone, thought that he _ had _ to, and if his best friend hadn’t talked him down, forced him to stop, to just _ think _, he’d probably be six feet deep in the dirt of another world.

Was this the first time Ethan was leaving to fight without his cousin by his side?

The man’s eyes had softened at the teenager’s words, his stance relaxing as he smiled, albeit tremulously. “It’s better this way, Harry,” he murmured. “Trust me on this one, please.”

“But--” he didn’t _ want _to say it. “But what if you don’t--”

“Come back?” Ethan finished drily. “The way Ben didn’t?”

_ “Don’t _ say that! Don’t _ say _ it like that!” It was sheer will that kept Harry from shouting, but he couldn’t stop the few angry tears that slipped, unbidden, down his flushed cheeks. “Please,” he whispered, his voice little more than a croak. “Just-- just...”

_ “Kid,” _ the older man rested his hands on the teenager’s thin shoulders. “You have _ got _ to calm down.”

He was right, of course; if Harry carried on he’d probably wake the rest of the household, still entrenched in slumber, and half of the neighbours besides-- but there was something icy inside him, a burning chill that caused shudders to run through him, though he knew he wasn’t really cold. Maybe it was how casually Ethan had spoken about his cousin’s death, or maybe it was that Harry himself had seen too many people leave and _ not come back. _

He took a shaky breath before stepping back, away from the man’s painful grip. “Sorry,” he muttered, pushing his too-long fringe away from his eyes with trembling fingers. “I’m fine,” he probably didn’t sound too reassuring, so he forced a strained smile, his lips stretching somewhat unnaturally as he spoke. “I’m fine, Ethan.”

The soldier didn’t look convinced, but to his stacking credit he didn’t press the younger boy further, instead matching the eighteen-year-old’s small grin with a rueful one of his own. He started to organise the contents of his bag, taking bread and paper from the cabinets and wrapping it with ease. “Six years ago,” he spoke quietly, as though he were afraid someone would overhear them in the stillness of the morning half-light. “I said goodbye as though I wouldn’t return, and it damn near destroyed them. My mother was _so afraid, _she couldn’t sleep or eat. The moment I returned my father begged me not to leave again-- I think he thought she wouldn’t be able to take it.”

“But you did,” Harry whispered, his gaze fixed on the torn man in front of him. “Leave, I mean. You did leave.”

“Yes,” Ethan glanced up, and even though the younger only caught a glimpse before the weakness had been shuttered away, hidden by the other’s seemingly limitless composure, the dark gleam that he saw festering in those crimson eyes was nothing short of wretched. “But I didn’t say goodbye, and-- and they were better for it.”

Were they? Harry couldn’t pretend to know what had transpired in the years prior to his arrival, but it seemed to him as though the family bore fresh pain each day in the absence of their loved one. There was no way for Ethan to know of this though, not when he spent the time he was home distancing himself from any and all he called family or friend. For the first time, Harry wondered if maybe that was the reason the man had purposely sought him out the day before-- for though it seemed he did _ care _ about him, at least to some degree, there was no denying that they were near-strangers, even as they ate and slept in the same house. _ Harry _would be by far the least burdened if Ethan were to die on the battlefield, and so it stood to reason that the older man would have no other to speak with, not without risking rekindling the obvious affection his family had for him anyway. The same affection the soldier clearly believed to be slowly petering out was the love the younger boy saw growing stronger within his family, each and every hour the man spent fighting, away in the throes of war.

It was with this that he realised-- by some twisted reasoning, and perhaps truly misplaced judgement, Ethan believed his cold facade was protecting them, that somehow his absence meant their love for him would eventually die, and the younger understood then, with a sickening clarity: this was a belief that brought the man _ comfort. _

And as warped as it seemed to be, shattering the mistaken conviction might break him irreparably.

He knelt, opening the cabinet door to the storage cupboard situated directly under the sink and pulling five metal-lined flasks from the cavernous depths before beginning to fill them with water, methodically capping them even as he sensed Ethan’s gaze at his back. 

“Those are for me?” The words were softly spoken, gentle with a nuance Harry didn’t quite understand.

“You should take as much as you can carry,” the boy passed the bottles to the young man, who made quick work of stashing them into his almost overflowing rucksack. “Nova told me it's a long journey to the city, especially on foot.”

“Thanks kid,” Ethan’s smile was tremulous and a little awkward as he hefted the bag onto his back, his groan as he discovered the stark weight of his belongings sounding somewhat incredulous. “I guess I’ll be going now, then.”

Harry watched him turn. The young man’s jagged, white hair fell loose about his shoulders-- he’d clearly foregone the ribbon, perhaps because the hood of the cloak he wore would hold the errant strands back just as easily. The colour contrasted starkly with the bronze in his skin, and the crimson of his eyes. Were the shades to blend, they might as well be a scene on the battlefield: blood and skin and bone.

\-- and then he couldn’t stop seeing _ Ethan _ that way, as more than just another casualty, charging into war and doomed to die by his iron stubbornness and righteous fury, and wasn’t that already his _ own _prerogative?

“Wait!” he croaked out, before the man could disappear from view. “Ethan, wait, I need to ask you something.”

The young soldier stopped, but didn’t turn back. “What is it?” his tone was guarded, though not fearful, and Harry found himself hesitating-- what was so important that he’d stopped the man for it?

“I just--” he started, and he winced when his voice shook. “I just wanted to ask--”

Ethan turned around, and moved towards him again. The look on his face was kind, and the younger boy silently berated himself for being so nervous. “C’mon kid,” the young man’s eyes were soft as he looked down at the teenager. “Out with it.”

“Don’t die!” Harry blurted, and then flinched when crimson eyes widened in response. “Please? Just-- you’ll be careful won’t you?” He flushed in embarrassment, because he hadn’t meant it so clumsily. But he _ had _ meant it. He was getting too attached too quickly, and in this mess of a world he’d found himself in, nothing about that was good. He shouldn’t have asked Ethan something so terrible, shouldn’t have asked him to promise something he _ couldn’t-- _

“I won’t die.”

Harry’s racing thoughts ground to halt. “How?” he choked, his voice little more than a croak. “How can you promise that?”

Something akin to amusement sparked in the older man’s eyes, though he kept his face respectfully serious as he answered: “Well, you _ did _ask.”

“But I _ shouldn’t _have,” Harry felt like crying. “I don’t know. I think I shouldn’t have. But I just--”

He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. 

“You,” Ethan’s tone was measured. “You’re a mess, kid.”

The eighteen-year-old gave a watery laugh. It was true, he probably _ was _ being overly dramatic. It was just difficult, sorting through the fear, figuring out which parts were just anxiety-fuelled irrationality, and what actually had a basis in reality. “I guess so,” he whispered in reply. He shook his head, pulling away, feeling more than a little ridiculous. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don't apologise,” Ethan seemed to hesitate, his hand hovering where Harry’s shoulder had just been before he slowly lowered it. “Ah, damn it. Listen kid, I don’t know all of what’s happened to you, but-- but even the stuff you told me about yesterday, it would be enough to mess anyone up.” He smiled then, though there didn’t seem to be any joy in his expression. “You’re probably right that I can’t promise to stay alive. It’s not exactly something I have any control over--”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled-- and even though it was something he already knew, his heart stuttered painfully. “Yeah, I get it.”

“--So I propose an exchange.” 

A… what?

He said as much.

“An exchange,” Ethan repeated himself, his grin widening mirthlessly as he stared down at the younger boy. “I have something to ask you as well.”

Something was off. He could _ feel _ it. There was an odd light in the older man’s crimson eyes, behind the buoyancy and the carelessness, sharpening the piercing stare. It sent a shiver of unease up his spine-- not because he was scared, for he _ wasn’t. _ For what little he knew of the man, he understood perfectly well that Ethan wasn’t dangerous-- not to _ him _anyway. In truth, he knew hardly anything besides that fact, and the expression the man bore was one more unknown.

“What is it?” Harry’s voice was shaking.

“I’ll stay alive,” there was something soft in the soldier’s tone, something almost _ fond _ as he spoke to the younger boy. “But I need something to come back to. Keep them safe for me?”

Keep them safe.

There was no question who he was talking about.

An exchange. Their lives in return for his safe return. As if Harry wouldn’t already have given up his own life to protect those he considered family. As if Ethan hadn’t already figured _ that _ out, didn’t already understand how deeply he cared for the people who had taken him in, taught him, _ raised _him.

  
But vows, once spoken, were powerful things. Sometimes things needed to be said.

“I’ll keep them safe,” the fraught words fell from his lips, even as his heart trembled, shivering in the magnitude of an oath seemingly insurmountable. “I swear it, Ethan.”

One impossible promise for another.

_ Equivalent. _

“Will you do anything?” The man’s voice was low as he made his final request. “I need to hear it, Harry.”

Anything.

It could have been a throwaway comment, a desperate plea, and perhaps if it had been anyone else, Harry would have taken it as such-- but Ethan had survived a war, had probably committed atrocities he couldn’t have conceived of in his innocent years. Ethan had fought in a war, and he knew the younger boy had too.

He’d die for them, of course he would, but--

His life wasn’t the only thing he stood to lose.

Was he willing to kill for them?

He closed his eyes. For those he considered a family, he’d never hesitated to risk his life. For the fate of the world, he’d walked up to his willing murderer and asked for death.

For all the deaths he’d catalysed, only two had been at his own hands. Both times, his mother’s love had been the final weapon of choice: woven into his skin, laced through Riddle’s blood, burning in Snape’s black gaze, silvery and bright.

He’d never cast the final blow. He’d never had to.

Was he really willing to jeopardise his soul?

Then again, what else did he have left to give?

“Anything,” his voice was hoarse as he spoke, but he looked the older man in the eyes as he said it. “I’ll do anything, Ethan. You didn’t have to ask.”

“I really didn’t, did I?” There were tears, carefully restrained in the soldier’s red gaze--

And then he was locked in a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” the man’s voice was taut, but substantially gentler as he spoke to the teenager. “You’re a good kid, Harry. Don’t let yourself get hurt either, you understand me?”

Harry shook his head yes. “Be safe,” he choked out, throat suddenly tight. “Don’t- don’t die. In exchange.”

Ethan’s voice was soft. “You’ll see me again, kid. I promise.”

And then he left-- the door swinging shut behind him in absolution.

And Harry watched with burning eyes, an ache in his chest, and sudden dread in his heart.

* * *

“You haven’t told them, have you?”

Harry stared at the young girl, seated beside him atop the crumbling structure the villagers determined a fortress. “Told them what?”

She snorted, “You’re not that dense, Harry.”

He exhaled shakily, “How do _ you _even know? I didn’t think he’d told anyone else.”

“He didn’t have to,” her eyes were shut as she spoke, her legs swinging back and forth carelessly, as though she wasn’t perched on a ledge thirty feet above the dusty cobblestone. “He always does this, leaves without explaining himself I mean-- and he wasn’t with Luke this morning. It’s enough for anyone to figure it out.”

“But they-- Nova and Elliott-- they haven’t yet?” Harry stumbled over their names, flushing with belated contrition, because perhaps he should have told them. Perhaps he should have woken them, should have begged them to stop Ethan from leaving. He was sure they would have, had they the chance. Something had stopped him though, and he’d frozen, hardly moving an inch until he’d been sure the young man was long gone-- a mistaken kinship maybe, brothers of the battlefield. A concept so noble and useless and mortal he could have kicked himself for falling for it. What good was nobility if you were dead?

“Harry,” she’d turned to look at him, and beneath the layer of concern there was a concurrent sharpness in her expression, For a second she reminded him fiercely of the soldier he’d stood in front of that morning, and he remembered their relation. They looked alike. “I doubt they want to,” she murmured. “Denial, you know? It's supposed to be easier on them.”

“Supposed to?”

She scowled. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Sorry,” he shrugged, staring down at the rows of houses beneath them. They were arranged neatly, the layout of the village clear from this perspective. It was beautiful, in a rustic kind of way, and he found himself relaxing even as he spoke.“You don’t have to answer, Freya.”

He heard her sigh softly before she spoke once more, an almost imperceptible quiver in her young voice. “Ben would always say goodbye to me. Though I was never allowed to tell my parents, of course,” she smiled, amusement colouring her tone as she glanced at Harry. “I think he was letting Ethan play his little game of emotional keep-away. My mother would have told Aunt Nova, I think, if she’d known when they were leaving.”

Harry wished he’d had the chance to meet Benjamin Byrne.

“What was he like?” He asked hesitantly.

Freya was silent for a moment, but she didn’t glare at him, or snap and so he let himself relax as she mulled over the question.

She’d changed, coming out of the shell-shock in anger and angst, and Harry had been painfully reminded of himself during his fifth year at Hogwarts. Fury and grief and forced maturity all wrapped up in one tiny, teenage body. 

How similar were they? Would her future be as painful as his had been? Would she lose people like he had?

Would she lose _ more? _

He felt sick.

“He was strong,” Freya was answering him, pulling him back to reality. “And kind. He hated hurting people,” her mouth twisted suddenly. “He only went to the war front so that Ethan wouldn’t have to go alone. He never _ wanted _ to go. He never wanted to fight. I wish--” she broke off, covering her mouth as she choked on her words, her face suddenly drained of colour, and Harry _ knew _what she’d been about to say.

“You don’t,” he whispered, feeling suddenly, inexplicably chilled.

She sobbed. “Ethan deserved it more.”

“That’s not true.”

“What do you know?” she was raging then, turning to Harry with anger in her eyes, her body tense and coiled and ready to fight. “What do you know? You _ never _ met Ben. You _ barely _ know Ethan. Ben was _ good, _ Harry. He was good and kind and he was my brother, and _ Ethan-- _ he is none of those things, I _ know _ him, Harry, and he really, really _ isn’t, _ don’t you _ see--?” _

What right did she have, to say these things? For every loved one Harry had lost, he’d never once wished that pain on _ somebody else-- _

“I see.” Harry turned away from her, slow fury pumping through his veins. “I see that you’re a child, Freya.”

She screamed, and launched herself at him, and his back hit against the crumbling wall of stone that once supported the sloped roof. Her small hands were clutching his shirt, her lithe body _ millimetres _ from the crumbling ledge his legs were dangling over, and in a sudden flurry of fear he shoved her backwards into the alcove, pinning her with a brute strength he’d never thought he’d had-- never thought he’d _ have to use against a child. _

“You could’ve killed us!” he roared, shaking her against the stone wall. “You could have _ killed us, _ Freya. We could have _ died.” _

“You don’t understand!” Tears were coursing down her cheeks, pooling under her twisted expression. “You don’t understand, Harry--”

_ “What _ don’t I understand?” he snapped hotly. “What it’s like to lose people? I’ve lost _ everyone, _ kid. _ People fucking die _ , okay? Everyone dies. Wishing death on innocent people, because _ you _ can’t handle that, is _ wrong.” _

“But he--” Freya was trembling, even as she spoke. “Ben went to protect _ Ethan, _ Harry. Ethan-- he was going to fight and he _ must have wanted to. _ He was talking about honour and righteousness and even _ now _ he’s gone back. He didn’t have to fight, but he did anyway, and Ben died because of it. _ It’s not _ fair. It’s _ not.” _

It wasn’t fair-- of course it wasn’t. But if their positions had been switched, would that have made it any fairer? If it had been _ Ethan’s _broken body (the thought made nausea rise up in his throat) strewn across the floor, if it had been Benjamin who limped home, horror in his ruby eyes, would an injustice have been righted? 

_ No. _

Harry’s anger drained. She was a _ child. _ It wasn’t fair, and she was a _ child, _and how black and white did the world look to her young mind? Had she ever left this tiny village? It was unlikely-- and so the few who lived here, the few she loved… 

How much did she feel she had left?

“It seems to me,” he said quietly, meeting her broken gaze with his own, measured one. “That your brother did what he set out to do.”

“He didn’t _ choose to die--” _

“No,” Harry countered. “But he knew the risk. Ethan fights for duty, true, but he also fights because somebody has to. Somebody has to fight back. If Ben went to protect him--” he hesitated, his brow creasing in thought. “He was older wasn’t he?”

“Five years,” Freya whispered. “Five years older.”

Thirty then, he’d been thirty when he’d died. He’d had nearly ten more years of life than either of Harry’s parents were given.

Still, how tragically young.

“An adult, then,” Harry smiled sadly. “Ethan was my age, wasn’t he? I’m still a kid, Freya, how would you feel if I went off to war?” 

The irony might have been humorous, were the situation any less dire. His status as a child was debatable, he thought. His supposed standing of a civilian even more so.

But she didn’t know his past. She blanched, shaking her head. “Don’t, Harry.”

“I won’t. I won’t fight,” he murmured, though he was fully aware he had no right to promise this to her either. 

_ It will be okay. I promise. I won’t fight. _

He was such a liar. 

“Sometimes adults make decisions to protect children,” he said softly. “Your brother knew what he was doing, and I think-- I think Ethan must have needed him. He was young, Freya.”

“But why didn’t they stay?” she was crying again, though she was no longer fighting him, her head leaning heavily against the solid stone behind her. “They didn’t have to go, they could have _ stayed. _Didn’t they care about us?”

Would she understand? Did he want her to? He was sure she’d been sheltered by her father, perhaps even more so than Luke had been. Did she understand the political situation-- how tenuous their grasp on freedom was becoming? If she was truly able to accept that Harry just _ wouldn’t fight, _ it suggested that she really didn’t know. There were causes worth fighting for, and dying for too-- he’d been plenty ready for that, had gone ahead and _ sacrificed himself, _just to give his friends a fighting chance, and he’d do it again, if he had to.

_ You might have to, _ his thoughts whispered. _ You might. _

Maybe it was selfish of him, but he didn’t want her to think like that-- to think dying over a cause could be _ meaningful. _ He was fine with throwing his own life away, had been okay with that long ago, but he didn’t want _ her _ to die-- _ to waste her life-- _

He turned away, feeling inexplicably like a coward. “They made their own choices, Freya. We have to respect that.”

He’d said the wrong thing. 

“Okay, Harry,” the little girl’s voice was dull. She pushed at his hands. “Let me go, now. I want to go home.”

He eyed her warily. “You’re not going to push me over the edge?”

“No,” she snapped. “But I want to go home, and you’re in the way.”

He helped her climb down, even as she scowled and glared, because she was perfectly capable of doing it herself. But he didn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself if she fell. 

He’d said the wrong thing. He was sure of it. It felt like they’d been round and round in circles, and somehow he’d found himself further back than when they’d started-- because there was _ something _going on with her, and he couldn’t figure it out. Not fully, anyway. 

He was left with unease stirring in the pit of his stomach, a sense of dread coming over him. There would be repercussions, he knew, to his lies. It was just a matter of when. 

_ Soon, _ thoughts drifted intrusively to the forefront of his mind. _ Soon, soon, soon. _

**Author's Note:**

> The song that inspired the title was Meet Me On The Battlefield by SVRCINA


End file.
